Page 146 of The Silversmith

And I thought if I broke every single bone in my body, the shock would become overwhelming. A sadistic form of sweet relief preceding death’s consuming kiss.

But as I laid there at the foot of the cliff, I realized I’d been wrong. I felt it all, every agonizing wheeze as my body worked by some divine will to keep me alive. I wasn’t sure how far I’d fallen, but I’d suffered a jagged blade through my organs, the remains of which were probably dropping out of me by now. And my heart… was gone. No pulse pounded or even fluttered in my ears. It was impossible that I was alive, but it seemed the gods had one more cruel thing in store for me.

Hearing him weep.

The scarred hands I had come to know slid underneath my body, and I heard his voice.

“Ella!” he wept, lips against my forehead. He began to murmur something under his breath, something that sounded foreign—a prayer—and he didn’t stop for… I don’t know how long. I had one foot in consciousness and the other in death. Time didn’t exist.

His trembling voice was so faint, a whisper. Or perhaps it was the angels, the gods, my ancestors calling me to my new home.

“I love you! Come back to me, please!” Gavin shouted desperately, finally giving up on whatever peculiar phrase he’d been repeating, until all he could cry was, “Ella, my Ella, my Ella, my love, my Ella…”

Just let me die, I thought, because I couldn’t speak. Just let me go.

Gavin didn’t say anything else. He wailed. He roared. It was a horrific sound, like fragments of his soul reluctantly splintering out of the only home they’d known.

It was all I heard.

The world around me went dark.

And I was dead.

Chapter thirty-four

The grass was warm and plush beneath me. Sunlight, hot on my skin, was soothed by a light, summer breeze. I lay flat on my back, and when I turned my head and saw a familiar wooden house and barn with worn siding, I knew I was back in Warrich.

But if that was so, that sunlight and gentle breeze were not right. I lifted up on my elbows and took in my surroundings. No clouds—the sky in Warrich had never looked so blue, even in summer. A flock of goldfinches danced through the clearing. The sharp chirps of their contact calls made a gleeful song in the peaceful air. One more thing out of place.

And then I saw Oliver.

He sat in the grass beneath the apple tree Phillip had cut down just weeks before their deaths. It had been our favorite spot, but the tree had developed a fungus, rendering it useless. Today, however, the tree was abundant with bright-red apples.

“Ollie?” I stood but paused when I felt no pain. Indeed, my heart—I rested a hand over it to be sure—beat steadily in my chest. I looked down at my clothes. A fluttering white dress with short sleeves, and I was barefoot. No blood. No fatal tear through my torso.

“Hi, Ary.”

I bit back a broken cry. His back was to me, but that sweet voice—so clear, so happy. For over a year, I had only heard it in my dreams. The good dreams, which were sparse to begin with.

In one hand, he pushed around a toy wooden carriage painted green and bright yellow. Tucked beneath his other arm was a plush toy horse. Black, with a spot of white on its chest. I remembered the little stuffed horse from the day I’d found them. Even in death, he’d held it against his chest, untouched by the blood. But upon thinking back, I couldn’t recall how he had gotten that horse. My mind must have done what it could to block out any more details.

My tears were silent as I knelt in the grass at his side. I was afraid to touch him. For this to be a dream. That fear manifested in trembling lips and hands as I sorted through memories of how I’d gotten here. As I sifted through the lies and heavy expectations searching for the truth.

I felt like I was stuck swimming beneath a thick sheet of glass covered with doors. Through each door, I could see up above the surface, into a different world, where scared and angry voices beckoned and begged for me. But only one door was real. Only one could be opened, and I only had one chance to try.

“Are you real, Oliver?” I whispered. From the side, he looked happy and serene. “Are you… here?”

“Of course I’m here.” His small hands wrapped around my arm and squeezed. “Where else would I be?” Ollie looked up at me without a single trace of sadness. “Did he find you too?”

“Who?” I asked.

“The man with the scar on his face.”

I worked my throat through a swallow to suppress the acidic burn of vomit. Oliver’s shirt was clean—no sign of that X I’d seen carved into his chest the day I found them dead. I hadn’t considered that mark might have belonged to the Butcher of Nyrida, but now…

“I’m so sorry, Ollie.” I turned and cupped his face in my hand. His skin was softer than I remembered—something like silk, but without a single blemish save for the cute mole on his forehead. Everything about him seemed lighter. “What happened to you, you must have been so scared—”

“I wasn’t scared.” Oliver looked up at me again, smiled, and held up the small stuffed horse. “He was nice. He said Papa was taking a nap, so he gave me some juice and this horse to take a nap with too.” He stood and hugged the horse to his chest. “Besides, it’s better here. I don’t ever get sick, hungry, or cold, and Papa isn’t sad anymore.”