Children he would do anything, sacrifice anything—including his own life—to help.
I hiccupped, sobs tearing from me. I crumpled into a ball, arms around my head.
My heart struggled to absorb the implications of this.
But that persistent sense ofrightnesswouldn’t leave me.
The events of that night on the tower were not what any of us had thought. Babbo, in his infinite love, had been trying tosaveus.
Had he even really committed suicide in the end? Or had his death been the accidental result of him trying to permanently close the scars? Obviously, as the curse and madness persisted, whatever Babbo had attempted hadn’t worked.
But hetried. He had given his life trying to save us.
A liquid warmth flooded through my soul, washing away every last ounce of anger toward my father.
Strong arms encircled me. First Tennyson. Then Jack.
I snuggled into them, letting the emotion course through me, burrowing into the arms of the men I loved.
Somehow, though, in the midst of it all, a third pair of arms came around me. A subtle whiff of Babbo’s cologne. The sense of fluttery bird wings against my mind.
And love. Suffocating, overwhelming love.
I will always love you, my little sparrow.
In my mind’s eye, I saw a sparrow soar into the heavens, spiraling into the light of the sun. Beautiful. Free. The light caught the bird’s small wings, turning them from simple brown to flashing gold, burnished and glistening.
And Iknew. . .
Thiswas how Babbo saw me. Not as a plain, small bird, but as a magnificent creature capable of rising to any height.
A phantom kiss brushed my forehead. A hand ruffled my hair.
I will always love you, my little sparrow.
I melted into it, releasing years of heartache and pain into the arms of a father who had always loved me.
TWENTY-FIVE
Chiara
Several hours later, I managed to talk about it. About Babbo and what he might have done. About my vision and what it meant.
Jack was his usual combination of fascinated, insightful and excited.
Tennyson took it all in tense silence, face impassive. I finally had enough of my brother’s grumpiness.
“Why aren’t you more happy about this?” I poked a finger at his chest. “This should be the best news of the year! There’shope, Tennyson. Hope that you can open yourself up to love. Hope that you might have an ordinary life yet . . . a wife, kids . . . normalcy.”
He sat back, expression grim. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“You’re . . . afraid? Ofhope? Yeah, I know every time I seriously want to freak myself out, I think about how awesome it would be to live a normal, long, fulfilling life. That crap will give you nightmares—”
“Stop it.” His tone clearly indicated how lacking he found my sense of humor. “Hope . . . when you haven’t had any for as long as you can remember . . . can be a dangerous thing. Hope leads to wants. Andwantslead to disappointment. And disappointment, when you are already on shaky emotional ground, can be deadly. So, yeah, Chiara. I can’t say I’m super eager to jump up and down in excited glee over this.”
Damn him. That sorta shut me up.
“Fine,” I snorted. “I’ll just have to have enough hope for both of us.”
