Something close to pain, maybe guilt, flashed like a dove’s wing across her face.
She didn’t move, hadn’t even closed the door on the swampy heat. But her gaze took in my boots—scuffed from the fight and the walk back over here—my trousers, sweaty shirt, and held on the brace wrapping my arm and hand.
“How bad?” she asked as she catalogued the rest of me, neck, chin, mouth, cheeks, nose, and then, finally,finally, my eyes.
“A sprain.”
“Sprain?” she asked somehow directing it at Abbi.
“The witch says it’s a fracture,” Abbi supplied.
“Witch.” Lula’s expression remained flat. She shut the door, pausing to press fingertips against its worn surface before she turned back to me.
“Yup. Witches,” Abbi said. “We got luckandice cream. You missed both of them, Lula. You missed a lot.”
That statement didn’t sound much like a young girl had said it. It sounded like an older being who had stared down at the world for time on end and had seen life spool out beneath her. Who had watched millions of people spend their handful of days looking away, walking away, ignoring the very heartbeat that anchored them to time, to the world, and to those who mattered to them.
Or maybe that was just me still in shock.
Lula gestured for me to sit on the bed. I did. Lu took my place in the chair, and then leaned forward, her fingertips touching my brace.
“What did I miss?”
Who hurt you? That was what she was really asking. Who had done enough damage that I had broken.
Stubbornness rose up and closed my throat. I didn’t want to tell her.Fragile.The accusation still stung.
“Abbi’s right,” I said. “We got ice cream.”
Her slow blink was the only sign of her annoyance. “Abbi?” she asked.
“He only got two, but I got three scoops. You’re mad at him or mad at yourself, so I don’t want to talk about ice cream. Ice cream is toogoodto be mad about.”
“I’m not mad,” she said.
“Not about ice cream,” I added.
Lu gently touched the back of my fingers. “Not about ice cream.”
“You need luck,” Abbi said. “You need to kiss the Blarney Stone.”
“Maybe I already did.”
“No,” Abbi said, serious again. “You didn’t.”
“Have you been spying on me, Abbi?” Lula asked without looking away from me.
“You’re easy to see. Both of you are easy to see.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a yes or a no.
“How did you fracture your arm?” Lu finally asked.
“A fight.”
Yes, I was being stubborn. Because anyone could get hurt in a fight—
—fragile—
