Page 50 of How To Survive This Fairytale

You kiss the sweet spot where his neck becomes shoulder, where he shivers if you drag your teeth.With a sigh, he tilts his head to the side, into the pillow, offering more of himself as you kiss to the boundary of skin and feather.There, too—that threshold where swan became prince, that border of magic that keeps his past alive—makes him whimper.You press your hips to his, and slide your palm up his thigh, waist, ribs, to his impossible softness of feathers.

“You make a convincing argument,” he says.“But if I may offer a counterpoint?”

“You may not.”

“Too bad.”He laughs, which turns into a gasp as your hand massages his wing.“One horse, you behind me, every day, like this?We’ll give up riding and fuck in the bushes.”

“… And that’s supposed to dissuade me?”

“Two horses,husband,” he says, “or we’ll never get beyond the city’s gates.”

Thirty-Eight

Each horse carriesa saddlebag full of the usual supplies: water, money, royal seals.Clothes, canteens.Blankets, bullets.Your gun.

Then there are the moreunusualones:

In Cyrus’s, a magic pot that will cook any food you desire.

In yours, a wolf pelt.

“I know you hate it,” you say.“But I had an inkling we might need it.”

He smiles.“I trust your inklings.”

Also in yours, a pouch of seeds.Thepouch of seeds.All this time, and still you haven’t planted them.Your land is still a mess, and your land didn’t feel like quite the right place.Now you know there is somewhere else for these seeds and you intend to take them there.

* * *

Cyrus isn’t used to riding hard, long hours, but he doesn’t complain about the outdoors.No, he loves the outdoors.Sometimes you catch him with eyes closed, head tilted back, soaking in the autumn sun like a blossom.Other times you catch him— again, with his eyes closed—and his wing outstretched, catching the wind.What joy it must be, to be two things, to live in between.What pain, too—to be renderedneitherby sheer virtue of beingbothin a world that does not allowboth.

That night, you camp in a wide open field beneath a singular, statuesque oak.Before dawn, you plant a blueberry seed beneath it.

* * *

Three nights later, you awake with a gasp and dart upright.Moments later, Cyrus’s hand is on your shoulder, his voice is in your ear, shushing and cooing, promising you’re safe.

“What was it?”he asks.“What did you dream of?”

“I can’t,” you choke.

Can’t speak of it.Can’t relive it a second time in the telling.Can’t ever let him know.Can’t calm your heart, can’t catch your breath, can’t clear your mind.

He gets you to lie down with your back against his chest, and he drapes his wing over your waist.Notjustover your waist—over your arm, your shoulder, your hip, half your thigh.The breadth of flesh and feathers covers you like a blanket.

“Once upon a time,” he mutters in your ear, and he tells you the safest, sweetest story you’ve ever heard, about a bird who fell in love with a boy.

Before riding out in the morning, you plant a cucumber seed in the ground where you slept.

* * *

A month into your journey, you come upon the tower in the clearing.

Only the most stubborn leaves cling to the trees.Crisp, brown, dried-out leaves blanket the ground in the woods, but here in the meadow, the leaves are few and far between, blown in by the wind.

You water the horses at the trickling stream and kneel down to wash your face.

“Cook, little pot, cook,” mutters Cyrus.