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Chapter thirty-four

T he 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. ”

“Where…” I worked my throat through a swallow and looked around. “Where is Papa?”

Oliver nodded toward the house. “Inside.”

“Will he talk to me?” I wasn’t sure what either of us would say, Phillip and I. But I felt the need to tell him how sorry I was for burdening his family. I also needed to demand the truth. Not Simeon’s story or his story—it hurt to think of my teacher’s name—but the untainted truth.

Oliver shook his head. “You can’t go in.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t stay here.” As he stood, he pointed toward the trees in the direction I’d gone with my friends on that day that felt so long ago. “You have to go back.” He grabbed my fingers and pulled. “You have to get up.”

“I don’t know if I want to.”

“Why not?”

Ire soured my stomach. “Because all everyone does is lie to me.”

“Yeah,” Oliver sighed. “I remember when they brought you home. Mama said you had been asleep for a very long time and that you were too weak to know where you came from, so I had to pretend you were my sister. Like a game,” he added. “But I think she was wrong. I think you know who you are. ”

“I don’t .” His brow furrowed at my denial, so I reiterated, “I don’t know who I am, Ollie.”

“Well, I do.” Oliver threw his arms around my neck and squeezed so tight, there was no doubting that he was indeed real.

What plane of existence we were on, I didn’t know.

But it was real . “You’re the strongest person I know,” he said, grinning so wide into my shoulder, I could feel the curve of his mouth through the cloth of my dress.

I drew in a ragged breath and held him, knowing this was the chance to say goodbye we’d never been given.

“I love you.” I tearfully pressed a kiss to his temple.

“I love you, too, Ary.” He pulled back, and his responding smile was as bright as the summer sun. Unnatural in the cold and brutal Warrich I had once known. But here, he fit. “You can go now.”

I burst into tearful laughter at his innocent candor and stood. It hurt to walk away, but I found peace in Oliver’s happiness. And despite the unknowns and lies and calamity awaiting me, the pull to return to life was too strong.

“Ary?” Oliver called when I reached the edge of the tree line.

I turned to see him hugging his horse to his chest. “Papa and I know you told the man with the scar on his face to be happy.” Oliver’s face brightened into a beaming grin that stretched from ear to ear.

A warmth settled in his eyes, too mature, too knowing for a five-year-old boy.

As if Phillip—sober and clear-eyed—was speaking through him.

“He told me to tell you he’s sorry he didn’t fight for your truth when he should have.

He said it’s okay to be angry because of what’s been taken from you, and happiness… you deserve that too.”

Oliver turned toward the house. I watched him disappear through the front door—his beloved stuffed horse in tow—as he spared me a final farewell.

I took a breath, closed my eyes, and stepped into the dense thicket of trees.