Page 11

LYSANDER

T he crow wakes me before dawn by tap-tapping on the window, and the noise startles me so badly I jerk upright, hissing as my wings tangle in the hammock. “Ouch!”

It takes me a moment to scramble out of the hammock, unsteady from the usual nightmares. The floor is cold on my bare feet and I quickly pad to the window and open the latch. The crow launches itself inside clumsily with a hoarse cry.

“Tssst… come here.” I catch it by the feet and it squawks. A capsule is clipped to its ankle. I open the capsule and unroll the note as the crow escapes my grip, flapping around the room until it lands on the nightstand.

“Craw!” it exclaims.

“Yes, thank you,” I reply absently, scanning the note. It’s Maddox’s handwriting.

There’s been a sighting — a real one. Nothing else yet. Your shadows have also been spotted, so stay safe.

- M

My shadows. The azeroths are here. How? When? I crumple the note with shaking hands. Did I lead them here, or had they already been following my sister?

I peer out the window. Gloomy blue shadows still hug the buildings across the way. Pools of yellow light dot the street. It’s that hazy pre-dawn time when every shadow seems to twitch and shudder in an invisible wind.

I snap the window shut and yank the curtain closed. The crow craw s at me again, claws tapping as it paces back and forth across the nightstand.

“You’ll have to wait,” I tell it sharply.

The notepaper is soft between my fingers. I smooth it out again and press it flat between two books. A sighting. It’s better than nothing.

I need to take Maddox’s messenger to the aviary, but there’s no chance I’m going outside when it’s anything other than bare, blinding daylight.

Stalling, I shower, brush my hair far longer than necessary, and dress and undress three times.

Standing in front of the open closet, I try to tamp down my mounting frustration.

I keep hoping courage will jump out at me.

Clothes have always been my comfort. My little hobby of costume making was honestly earned — I taught myself tailoring in the long years of isolation, poring over books, fighting with fiddly fabrics, pricking myself endless times with pins.

Mother was indulgent and didn’t say a word about it being an unfit pastime for a prince.

What else was I going to do with my time?

But everything I’d painstakingly sewn with my own hands over the years was gone by the time I arrived at The Sanctum, turned to ash. I couldn’t even bring myself to mourn it. It felt childish when our mother lost her life in the same fire.

After my first week here, Syril dug an entire wardrobe out of The Sanctum’s basement for me — boxes and boxes of show clothes, costumes, and forgotten laundry left in a hurry, all from decades ago when The Sanctum’s upstairs was a human hotel.

It was the kindest thing anyone had done for me in a long time, and now my closet is full of beautiful colors and fabrics.

Yet lately I’m not comforted by them. Looking at them makes me itch, makes me worry. With Maddox’s warning fresh on my mind, my preoccupation with the wardrobe feels supremely frivolous.

With a huff, I pick out something simple — charcoal grey woolen trousers and a soft, buttery sweater in the same color. With some effort, I fit the slits I opened in the back of the sweater over my wings.

“ Crah ,” the crow says in the mirror behind me.

“Come on.” I hold out my wrist.

The crow observes me with one beady eye until I scratch its cheek. Birds and fairies have always been kin. In the old days, wherever a fertile fairy king went there was sure to be food for all birds. Abundant crops for the seed-eaters. Berries for the crows. Fish in the rivers for the herons.

“I’m not fertile, you know,” I tell the crow.

“ Rrrrk, ” it retorts, shaking itself.

You’d better get on that , maybe.

The Sanctum’s aviary is on the roof, up the rickety back staircase.

It seems messenger birds are outdated these days, with cellphones and all, but Syril keeps the aviary maintained.

The roost is mostly full of pigeons — fat, soft, and friendly.

I like them very much. I show the visiting crow where to find seed and vegetables, and it makes a few uncertain stabs at a chunk of greenery before flying to sit atop the weathervane and survey the neighborhood.

The aviary is mostly empty, so I take a few handfuls of seed to the un-fenced area behind the garden where the pigeons sit in the sun.

The daylight and the open space of the roof clears my head of lingering shadows. My fears are probably just unfounded paranoia. The Sanctum is protected by dryad magic, and even azeroths would hesitate to trespass on the threshold of an old and powerful shadow dryad like Syril.

“Hey!”

The shout nearly startles me off my feet, and I gasp as my heart slams into my ribs.

The pigeons scatter with an eruption of wingbeats.

Once my heart stops trying to crawl out of my throat I recognize the voice, but it doesn’t do my heart any better.

Ezra stands at the garden fence, wearing thick gloves and holding a bin.

“Are you okay?”

“Pardon?” I look down at myself, but there’s nothing wrong.

He drops the bin and strips off the gloves. “What are you doing over there? There’s no fence!”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s dangerous ,” he insists, leaning over the fence. “Come on, you shouldn’t be there.”

“Ezra.” I fold my arms, feeling irritation pinch my brow. “I’m a fairy. Fairies aren’t afraid of heights.”

I surreptitiously hide my defective wing behind my back. He’d better not mention it. But he doesn’t even look, instead heaving himself over the fence with a grunt.

“You could have used the gate,” I tell him.

His already pinkish skin stains darker up his cheeks and he scowls. “I knew that.”

I turn away. Just being so close, without a bar or a table between us, makes my ribs ache with something I can’t name. He could easily reach out and touch me.

I could do the same.

I crouch again to hide that I’m unsettled, scattering a handful of seeds across the rough gray roof.

Boots land next to me. Ezra lowers himself to a matching seat, the chain on his jeans clinking.

He rests his broad forearms on his knees, and I hold myself perfectly still so my wings don’t shoot out toward him.

“This okay?” he asks.

“Fine,” I say shortly. It’s not okay — I’m irked. This is my quiet spot. No one else at The Sanctum would dare intrude. The words burst free before I can stop them. “Why don’t you treat me like the others?”

Ezra snorts. “Like you’re made of glass?”

“Like I’m a prince.” I straighten, feeling my own face heat.

He hums in contemplation. “Cause in my world, there are no princes. I mean, not like, real princes. There’s just people.”

My chest tightens. What would life be like in a world without princes? If I was just an ordinary monster?

“I was born a prince. I may not be very good at it, but it’s all I know.” I grip my knees. “People rely on me. I want to be worthy of them.”

Ezra folds his hands under his chin. The pigeons slowly return, picking at the seeds with the laziness of well-fed animals.

“That sounds like a lot of pressure.”

“It’s my destiny.”

“I was pretty sure of my destiny once,” Ezra says. “It looked bleak, I have to tell you. I wouldn’t be here if I’d stuck to the script.”

“Are you glad?” I wonder.

He meets my eyes, his dark gaze frank. “Yes. I’m glad Syril took a chance. I’m glad I let myself be open to it. And, uh…” his mouth twitches into a faint grin. “I’m glad I came up to the roof and found you here.”

“You sent Plato with the drinks.” It spills off my tongue without my permission and I cringe.

Ezra’s grin turns to a warm laugh. He trails off and looks away with a wry smile. “I was being ridiculous.”

“Were you afraid?”

“Of you?” he asks. “God, no. Of myself, maybe.”

That doesn’t make any sense. I rock back on my heels, my thoughts churning.

“Are you afraid of me?” He cocks his brow.

My heart thunders and all my muscles draw tight at once. Am I?

“No,” I breathe.

His smile is back. Every fiber of my being wants to be closer to that smile. I am afraid. I think. But not of him.

Oh.

“You don’t need to worry. I’ve decided to stop being ridiculous,” he says.

“Good.” I release my last handful of seed in a burst. Pigeons startle at the sudden movement.

“I should get back.” Ezra gets to his feet. My heart sinks. I don’t want him to leave, pathetic as it is. His hand comes down, and I stare up uncomprehendingly until the meaning dawns on me.

I take the proffered hand, my face hot. It’s warm and dry, his grip firm.

Fire bursts in my veins. I meet his eyes unwittingly only to find his gaze curious and penetrating.

More. I want more. My heart sings. It’s been so long — years since I’ve felt anything more than a fleeting brush of a feather, claw, or shadow.

At the same time it’s never been like this, leaving me hot and cold all over and feeling strangely exposed.

He lifts me to my feet as easily as if I were made of cloth and my wings flutter with foolish eagerness. His smile fades to faint creases under his eyes, his gaze becoming searching. To my deep regret, he lets go of my hand when it all becomes too much and I cut my eyes away.

“See you around, Lysander.”

Ezra disappears back down the stairs, leaving an eddy of warm, cinnamon-scented air in his wake, and I stand there like an idiot.

“Crah!” the crow mocks from the weathervane.

“I know,” I huff under my breath.

I don’t know what scares me more when he looks at me like that — that he won’t find what he’s looking for, or that he will.