Page 39 of May: Bloom & Bane

“Neither of us knows who we are, Sage. But maybe…” I reach my hand out. “We can find out together.”

He crawls into the bed beside me and pulls me flush against his chest.

“I wouldn’t want to not remember with anyone else,” he murmurs.

“Sage?”

“Yes, mí’aelvára?”

“Do you ever wonder if we were together—before the glass box?”

He squeezes me a little tighter.

“I think I’ve looked for you in every version of my life,” he whispers. “Whether I remember the details or not, my sírael recognizes yours. It’s the only thing that feels familiar in a world that makes no sense.”

“I don’t care, you know?” My voice breaks the quiet.

“Care about what?”

“About whatever you did before. Even if it was horrible. I want a fresh start. Just me and you.”

“You’d give that?” he asks. “Your forgiveness before you even know what you should forgive me for?”

“You talked to a sleeping woman in a glass box every night, just so she didn’t feel alone.” I trace the leaves on his forearm. “How bad could you have been?”

Droot lets out a tiny, whistling snore against Sage’s neck.

“Do you want me to tell you about the visitor?”

“I do.” I snuggle deeper into his chest. “But you have had a very long year, Sage. And you barely slept through any of it. We can talk about it in the morning. We’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

I stare at the ceiling for what must be hours. My throat feels like I’ve been swallowing sand, and the only thing I can think of is a warm cup of tea. I look over at Sage. Droot is still cuddled in the dip of his collarbone. They look so peaceful.

I lie here until I think my bladder might burst, and then I finally decide I’m not abandoning him by using the bathroom and going down into the kitchen.

I slip out from under the heavy weight of his wing. My toes curl against the warm wooden floor.

“Did you do that for me?” I whisper to Nook.

A trail of warm light flickers to life along the bottoms of the walls, patiently waiting until I take the first step.

“Thank you, Nook.”

The kitchen is bathed in moonlight. A cupboard slowly opens. Rows and rows of teas line the shelves: peppermint, lavender, Earl Grey, green tea, jasmine. Every flavor a girl could want.

Chamomile catches my eye.

I pull down the tin and set the kettle on the stove. Nook does the rest.

While I wait for the water to boil, a soft sound catches my attention. I glance around the kitchen and find nothing. The tiny pained sound rings out again.

A small, black-and-white bird, like the one in the meadow, is sitting outside the glass door. Its wing is bent at an odd angle, and it struggles to right itself.

My heart clenches.

“Oh, you poor thing,” I whisper.

I slide the door open, and the cool night air hits me. I sit down next to the wounded bird and hold out my hand.