Page 52 of The Heart and the Hawthorn

They snorted a decisive, ‘No.’

At the same time as Moth chimed, ‘Yes, of course.’

A vein in Dian’s forehead throbbed. ‘It’s not invisibility. And why in all the seas would I want to extend it to you, Frida Rose?’

The sound of her name on their lips was like silken roots wrapping around her chest.

‘Dian,’ Moth cut in, saving her from having to answer. Which was good since her tongue seemed to have temporary cemented itself to the roof of her mouth. ‘Stop. The world doesn’t revolve around you and your phenomenal ability to pout. We need her.’

‘Fine,’ Dian snapped, eyeing Frida as if the very sight of her pained them. Like zoo guests looked at the gut-eating slugs or the twelve-headed snakes. It was like a scalding burn that made her feel dirty. ‘But I won’t be able to do it for very long.’

Frida nodded quickly, her throat bobbing as she looked away. ‘That’s fine. Thank you. I’ll take what I can get. I – I promise I won’t ask unless it’s really necessary.’

Dian opened their mouth, presumably to shoot back something devastating, but when her words registered, their mouth snapped closed in surprise. ‘Oh,’ they muttered. ‘Ok.’

‘I’ve never known anyone to melt into the fabric of the worlds before,’ she said haltingly, her voice quiet. ‘It’s . . . remarkable.’

Dian’s lips flattened, as if they thought for some unfathomable reason that she was mocking them. Then they just shut their eyes and leaned one pale cheek tiredly against the wall. Conversation over. Frida couldn’t help her eyes from trailing up the length of their throat, mottled patches of silvery brown melting into fawn, bronze, twilight. When she blinked, she saw the image of them slumped in the grass, lightning-struck and tree-bound, as if it was burned into her. For all she knew, this – here in this cellar – was the first time they’d ever been confined. And she was in it. A human.

Suddenly, she started hammering on the hatch, no longer caring about the racket she was making. Pounding as hard as she could. Because if they looked like this, pale and drawn, after twenty minutes in a cellar, what would twenty years inside a glass Coffin do? She didn’t need to wonder. She knew exactly what it would do to them. She’d been there. Bang, bang, bang, she slammed her fists against the splintered wood. Suddenly, she couldn’t be in this cellar another second. She couldn’t be here another heartbeat. Not with them. Not with this knowledge lodged in her throat like a sharp thorn. The memory of the zoo rose up – of being encircled by trees, their branches knitting above like a cage.

They’d made a cage for her.

But they’d been inside a cage for years.

And she’d been their jailor.

She felt sick and slippery, like it was going to burst out of her at any minute, the darkness and trees and roses and thorns all pressing in on her from all sides, and she could smell hay and animals and fear. She tried to shove it in her rosewood box, all of it, because that’s where she put things that she couldn’t deal with, couldn’t handle, but it wasn’t working, for once it wasn’t fucking working, and her chest was caving in.

Her mother’s face in the hospital was ashen, the wires wrapping her like thorns, around and around her arms, into her veins, down her throat like parasites. The moment her mother had received her diagnosis, life had leached out of her, second by second, and however hard Frida had tried to scoop all that life and hope back up, the holes in her skin kept growing, until there was eventually nothing left to scoop up.

She couldn’t breathe. If she stayed down here another second, she was going to die too. She felt Dian’s sudden presence appear at her side, solid and very real. She’d been so busy hammering on the boards, she hadn’t noticed them dragging another crate over and climbing up next to her. Frida stilled, her lungs heaving as their shoulder pressed in close to hers beneath the hatch and pushed.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

With a yell of victory, they forced the thing open.

‘Yes!’ Frida shouted.

‘Sweet hairy webs!’ Moth howled.

Dian’s face shone. Their green hair curled in sweaty tangles around their forehead, and for a second Frida thought about hugging them.

Thankfully, she restrained herself.

Pale slanting light and the stench of manure pooled down from above and she quickly stood up on her toes, trying to peek her head through. She guessed that if any axe-wielding stable hands were up there, they would have already made themselves known. She could see the sack of grain that had fallen on its side, the simple stupid cause for their entrapment.

‘Give me a lift up,’ she called over her shoulder, gesturing quickly towards the hatch. There was no way she had the strength to pull herself up.

They looked at her askance. Any camaraderie of the last moments fading in the stench of horse dung. Reluctantly, they obliged, carefully though, as if unsure where to put their hands. Their fingers strong but tentative, a brief pressure, more awkward than successful, for in seconds Frida’s face was burning, and she realised what a terrible idea this was, the places where Dian’s fingers pressed through her uniform and into her skin were alive, as if on fire. Their mossy scent as dizzying as a heady night at the Crown.

Hastily, she wriggled away. ‘Ah, um – it’s ok, I – don’t think that’s working,’ she stammered, breathless.

Dian dropped her and jumped back to the ground, looking nonplussed again as they cleared their throat, their face almost as flushed as Frida’s. ‘I’ll just get another of these boxes, shall I?’

Frida nodded rapidly. ‘Yes, good idea! More boxes. Smart! We can stack them.’ Because even if she had to dislocate her own shoulders, she wasn’t going through that again. Dian, it seemed, agreed and it wasn’t long before they had a promising Jenga situation going on. Precariously, Frida managed to balance on top as Moth scuttled in circles shouting half-helpful suggestions and Dian’s jaw locked, eyes glued on her every wobble. Finally, she succeeded in pulling herself up, and lay there for a moment, panting amongst the hay and the manure, listening to the whispering horses. When she finally looked back down, Dian’s face shimmered up at her.

‘Well, help me up!’ they snapped.