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How important it is. How sacred.
I believe him, but as I arrive at the hollow tree where I intend to hide my clothes, I find Wig and Poke huddled together in the niche of the old log, looking devoutly ashamed of themselves, and I don’t know if I can do it.
Forgiving myself for my ignorance is one thing.
Forgiving my friends for attempted murder is another.
Chapter Twenty-One
Clara
I slow my pace, stopping a few feet from the cowering pair, not trusting myself to get closer.
“The truth. Quickly,” I demand, crossing my arms and digging in my fingers, unsure what I’ll do with my hands if they’re left out in the open.
Suddenly, they’re both babbling—Poke croaking something about having “no other choice” and Wig squeaking, “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” over and over. I silence them with a shake of my head. “There’s no time for apologies or excuses. Tell me what you did. Now. Start at the beginning and don’t leave anything out. I assume you two are responsible for hurting Declan?”
Wig cowers deeper into the shadows of the hollow log. “Poke’s idea, Poke’s, Poke’s,” he whispers, shivering pitifully.
“That isn’t a surprise,” I say in a tone harsher than any I’ve ever used with my Wig. “But it’s not an excuse, either. You knew better.”
Wig hangs his head, burying his face in his tiny pink paws while Poke bristles his feathers and shifts to his left, offering Wig the shelter of his wing. “No, he didn’t,” he rasps, his own head ducked low. “He tried to put a stop to it, but I convinced him we had no choice. That it was you or the boy. That we either kept our Glove safe or lost her forever. I stoked and stabbed until his thoughts were every which way.”
“So, you were trying to kill him,” I say, my blood chilling as I dig my fingers deeper into my skin.
Poke makes a sound somewhere between a croak and a gobble, dipping his head even closer to his claws. “Mistake. Horrible mistake. Knew it the moment the boy fell and the blood began to flow, but it was too late.”
“Too late, too late, too late,” Wig whimpers behind Poke’s wing.
“It was ugly business. Terrible, awful, no good,” Poke adds with a shudder. “But I…didn’t know, Glove.” He lifts shame-filled eyes tentatively to mine. “I didn’t understand.”
“Poor boy, poor boy, poor boy.” Wig peeks out from behind one large, inky feather. “Alive, alive?”
“Yes, he’s alive. For now. But he hasn’t opened his eyes, and he might not, ever again.” I press my lips together, wanting to scream my throat raw at them for being so wickedly stupid, but certain it would be a waste of breath.
Because I believe them. They were ignorant. Now, they are not. It’s tragic that their education came at so high a price—perhaps, for Declan, the ultimate price—but tragic things happen every day.
And so do beautiful, brave things.
I come to my knees beside the log, bracing my hands on my thighs as I whisper, “Don’t do anything like that ever again. Hurting people is wrong. Hurting an enemy is wrong, let alone hurting a friend. And Declan is my friend. My dear friend.”
Wig trembles, sending tears spilling from his dark eyes. “So sorry, sorry, sorry, Glove. So sorry, sorry.”
I nod, my throat squeezing tight. “I know. I believe you. And I forgive you. I’m hurt and so disappointed, but…I love you. And I always will, no matter what happens next.”
With a pitiful squeak, Wig scampers out of the log and hurls himself into my lap. I cradle him close with one hand, stroking his fur and whispering soft assurances that everything will be all right, though I’m not sure of that at all.
But that’s part of being brave—holding on to hope, even when it’s hard, and helping the creatures you love do the same.
I lift my gaze to Poke and extend my other hand. “You, too. Come get a hug. I don’t know when I’ll be able to give you the next one.”
Poke hangs back at first, but after a beat he scuttle-hops into my lap and rests his beak on my shoulder. “Don’t betray her, Glove. Don’t. She won’t forgive it. She doesn’t understand these sorts of things, either. Not sure she ever will.”
I cuddle them both closer with a sigh, considering his words. He’s right about Mother, but…wrong, too. She isn’t innocently ignorant, like a child, the way Poke and Wig were. In all the time she’s spent on earth watching the humans, Mother could have learned better—should have learned better—but she chose not to. She chose to see only the things that dressed her cruelty up as justice.
But she isn’t just. She’s wrong and cold and, most likely, unstoppable.
No planting has ever defied her and lived to tell about it, let alone crossed her then convinced her to change her ways.
