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Except no one answers. They’re too busy defending themselves or being slaughtered. Even if they weren’t, I remember too late. I can’t communicate through the elements in the mortal realm.

Éck er jroddur.

I’m scared.

Avians caw, and a wolverine howls. The shapes of their calls are clear; they’re looking for me, scrambling for me although the humans have them trapped, too. My eyes jump across a human field of high grass, yet I don’t see them, can’t get to them, can’t save them.

I recognize the echoes of my wild family, their agony scraping my organs like razors. I whimper and squeeze my eyes shut, but I still hear them searching for me, fighting to get to me.

Ok éck er mede jvjartade.

And I’m heartbroken.

I curl into a ball on the floor. The owl mask strapped around my heads conceals half of my face, and the midnight-dyed plumes catch a single tear. Moth made me this mask.

Have I lost her, too? Have I lost all of them?

Another avian wail dashes through the branches. I know the texture of that frantic sound. Panic shackles my lungs, so that I can’t speak, can only listen as Tímien fails to reach me in time.

They’ve got him now. They’ve got me, too.

They’ve separated us.

My body hunches over, and my face burrows into my upturned knees, and I sink my teeth into my lower lips until I taste blood, until it trickles down my chin. Rage and fury and terror bend my knuckles inward. Inside, I screech until I’ve lost my voice, until only a scant breath remains.

“Father,” I whisper so low only the wind can hear.

After that, all goes deathly silent—and so do I.

Then suddenly, the human returns. He crouches down, peers at me through angry eyes, and says, “You made us do it. It’s all your fault.”

I growl and launch upright to charge at the man, then I halt in place. My clouded gaze staggers across the bedroom. Midday leaks into the space, screens of golden light pouring across the carpet. All is still and quiet but for a draft that teases the curtains, the hanging planters, and the ivy dripping from the turret ceiling.

Panels of linen canopy the bed. The sheets pool around my waist, and a layer of sweat coats my naked torso. My fingers choke the blanket’s edge, but I loosen my death grip as awareness consumes me.

Nonetheless, I overturn my palms to examine the fingertips and the length of my arms, merely to check, to be certain. The digits are smooth, not a blister in sight. Scars pockmark my arms, however they’re old, not fresh.

My breath rushes out. I bow forward and cleave my fingers through my hair, which only makes a greater mess of it.

Lark had done the rest, numerous times last night while I made love to her.

Across the room, a mounted feather adorns the opposite wall. The quill is stripped in buff and tan, its overall shape slightly warped.

The joints of my back unwind as I stare at the relic of Lark’s childhood mask. I remember her gray eyes watching me from behind the visor. It was the first good thing I’d seen since the mortals caught me.

Beside me, feminine curves weigh down the mattress, the sight drawing my gaze. I roll toward my sleeping mate. Lark’s cheek sinks into the pillow, and her breathing rustles the fabric while she curls a fist beneath her chin.

A grin splits my mouth. I lean over and drop a featherweight kiss to her temple, then scoot to the edge and rise from our bed. Lack of sleep pulls on my muscles, but respite is unthinkable now.

A pair of silken trousers drape over the chair by the fireplace. A tired, gravely sound rumbles from my chest as I saunter toward the pants. While stepping into them, I regard the central fire basin, which is filled with trumpet flowers. They glow in the dark like a miniature, phosphorescent garden, the puckered white petals releasing a peaceful, verbena scent.

The pit in the great room is fine since we don’t sleep near it. But we never use this fire basin because the threat of ashes building in the grate reminds Lark too much of her youth. And while I’d intended to have the basin ripped out, she hadn’t wanted that.

“I’ll never get over my fear that way,” Lark had said.

Instead, I’d filled the space with these trumpet flowers from The Watch of Nightingales. My mate had been pleased. Often, she likes to curl up beside them as they glimmer.

Beyond the arched windows, the sun hovers like a coin in the sky. Filaments of wind twine around the mountain peaks and slip between labyrinthine bridges.