Page 159 of May: Bloom & Bane

CHAPTER 44

the patchwork bird can stay

—EDEN

Whisk. Whisk. Whisk.

I’ve been painting the same circle for the past ten minutes because the sound of my brush against the canvas has visibly made Sage relax. Once his breathing evens out, I dip the brush into a jar of burnt caramel. A color that feels like a ghost of a memory. Tiny, silver peach fuzz covers the baby beastie’s small limbs. It sparkles like fresh snow in the moonlight. Delicate, antler buds have just begun to crown her forehead. I lose myself in the texture of her hair, painting tiny ringlets of dark brown that frame a face so sweet it makes my own womb ache.

“Who are you?” I whisper to the canvas.

Beside her, the figure beyond the frosted glass is almost finished. As I thought before, he’s not a threat at all. A towering figure dressed in a suit of armor. I could almost swear, if I listen close enough, I can hear him whistling.

“Sage, look,” I murmur. “I finished⁠—”

A wet thud from the quilt makes the words die in my throat.

Sage is curled into a tight ball with his wings shivering, and black ichor pouring from his eyes.

“Sage!” I scream and throw everything off my lap. “Sage, wake up. Talk to me.”

He lets out an excruciating howl, and the trees at the edge of the clearing begin to groan, their wood splintering.

My hands hover over his shoulders. His skin is feverishly hot. I knew something was wrong.

“Vaelí, please answer me.” I smooth my hands over his hair.

What do I do? What do I do?

The tincture!

“Hold on, Sage! I’ll be right back. I’m going to go grab the dust.”

The scent of crisp apple and damp earth hits me a second before a bulky shadow covers the quilt. Emerging from the grass is the man from the marsh, his left leg dragging heavily.

“Get back,” he rasps, dropping into a crouch that looks horribly uncomfortable with that injured leg. He slides one of his massive, stitched arms beneath Sage’s shoulders and the other under his knees. With a simple grunt, he lifts and straightens, his bad leg buckling for a second before it locks. The sound of flesh ripping comes from somewhere on his body.

Sage’s wings drag through the clover beneath him.

“Inside?” Damien asks through labored breaths.

“Yes! Inside,” I gasp, running in front of them to open the door, only to find Nook has already done it for me. The vibrant wisteria and stove-eating hibiscus have all turned into nothing but brittle, gray husks. They crunch under Damien’s heavy steps as he carries Sage into the living room.

“On the bed,” I manage, pointing to the giant green palette of blankets on top of the mattress in the center of the floor.

Damien lowers Sage with a pained groan, his silver threads buckling before snapping completely.

“I’ll be right back; I have to go get his dust.” I run to the counter, grab the pouch, and collapse onto my knees beside him.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly. “I’ll wait outside to make sure everything is okay.”

“Don’t go!”

He stills beside me.

“I can’t be alone right now. I won’t know what to do if he gets worse.”

The threads at his shoulder are gaping from where they’ve popped, and one of them is bleeding something thicker than blood.