We cry until my father pulls me to my feet and hands me a bag. I’m not sure when he packed it, but when I look at him, I can tell that he’s been crying, too.
“It has everything you’ll need. At least for a few days. But you’ll have to find water…and fast. I gave you what we received for our rations this week, but it won’t last long.”
“Papa, I can’t take your rations. What will you and Mama do?”
“Don’t worry about us. We’ll figure it out,” my mother says as she tucks my hair behind my ear. “We always do.”
“I know it’s hot during the day, but I packed a blanket for the night. That way, you won’t be forced to generate a flame unless you absolutely have to. Find shelter. Find safety. But most of all, find happiness, Serafina,” my father says gently, and I wrap my arms around his waist, tucking my chin and pressing my cheek to his chest. “You have always been, and will always be our brave, headstrong, fiercely independent girl.”
And with those words, I can’t help but scoff because right now, I don’t feel like any of those things.
“Don’t do that,” he chastises, still holding me tight. “Don’t doubt yourself. You’ve been forced to fight since the day you were born. Every breath, every movement, every passing second, you had tochooseto survive. And you did. You are a survivor, Serafina. The healers didn’t think you would make it. But we always knew. We knew how strong you were. We heard it in your cries, saw it every morning when you opened your eyes.” He cradles my head in his rough hands, hands that have spent too many hours working in the fields. “Believe in what you can do, Serafina. Just as we have always believed in you.”
Then, he lets me go and steps away.
He places his arm around my mother, but she inhales deeply as if she just remembered something. She flees from the room but returns just as fast, her once empty hands now clinging to a small box.
“I…I was going to give this to you on your birthday in a few days,” she says, her voice trembling, her fingers shaking. She opens the box, and my eyes go wide because we’ve never had nice things, and I’ve never seen something so beautiful.
A slender charm, shaped like a tapering spiral with the smallest ruby placed in the center, stares back at me. It’s attached to a delicate gold chain that matches the charm in color. The simplicity makes it even more breathtaking.
“Mama,” I finally say, my eyes filling with tears once more. “This is too much. I—”
“Nonsense.” She unclasps the chain and moves to stand behind me. With the pendant resting high on my chest, she fastens it at the nape of my neck. “This charm has been passed down through our family for generations. My mother gave it to me on my twenty-first birthday to protect me in my final trial, and now it is yours.”
She stands beside my father once more, and my fingers cover the pendent, desperate to feel the protection she believes it will offer.
“I’ll never take it off,” I tell her, finding it hard to meet her eyes, but I do because I don’t know when or if I’ll ever be able to look atthem again. “The plants in my room,” I blurt out, my words rushed because there’s still so much to say, so much to tell them, toteachthem. “I added to Telfi’s journals, wrote down more remedies, more uses for the roots and the leaves and the—” I can’t find my words. Telfi was the one who was good with words. She was the one who loved to learn, to heal, tohelp.
“It’s okay, Serafina,” my mother says gently. “Do not worry about us.” Her fists tighten as she holds them close to her chest.
Do not worry.
Do not worry.
But how will they know which leaves to crush to soothe mother’s burns from the tea water she boils each night?
How will they know what tonic to prepare to prevent infection when father manages another deep cut while working in the fields?
Because you wrote it down.
I wrote it down.
All will be well. I relax my flexed fingers.
“Go, Serafina,” my mother orders, and I shake my head because I’m not ready. I willneverbe ready. “Go, daughter, and I will pray to the gods that we see each other again.”
My eyes hold hers, then my father’s. Committing their image to memory, and silently promising myself that this will not be the last time we are together.
It can’t be.
And then I leave.
I’m out the door, down the stairs, and sprinting through the moonlit street.
My legs burn from the effort, but I do not stop. Because if I stop, I’m afraid I’ll never start again.
I run and I run, all the way to the very edge of Village 28. To the bridge where I’ll wait for Char.
