These were the birds that once haunted my dreams.
These birds, kept and bred by a crazy woman. I feel embarrassed to realize I’d held fast to nonsense, to the faded, disfigured impressions of old memories poorly discarded. I’d hoped for more. Dreamed of more. Disappointment lodges in my throat, a cold stone I’m unable to swallow.
And then
again
I feel it
I stiffen against the nausea that precedes a vision, the sudden punch to the gut that means there’s more, there’s more, there’s always more.
Aaron pulls me closer, holds me tighter against his chest.
“Breathe,” he whispers. “I’m right here, love. I’ll be right here.”
I cling to him, squeezing my eyes shut as my head swims. These memories were a gift from my sister, Emmaline. The sister I only just discovered, only just recovered.
And only because she fought to find me.
Despite my parents’ relentless efforts to rid our minds of the lingering proof of their atrocities, Emmaline prevailed. She used her psychokinetic powers to return to me what was stolen from my memories. She gave me this gift—this gift of remembering—to help me save myself. To saveher. To stop our parents.
To fix the world.
But now, in the wake of a narrow escape, this gift has become a curse. Every hour my mind is reborn. Altered. The memories keep coming.
And my dead mother refuses to be silenced.
“Little bird,” she whispers, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. “It’s time for you to fly away now.”
“But I don’t want to go,” I say, fear making my voice shake. “I want to stay here, with you and Dad and Emmaline. I still don’t understand why I have to leave.”
“You don’t have to understand,” she says gently.
I go uncomfortably still.
Mum doesn’t yell. She’s never yelled. My whole life, she’s never raised a hand to me, never shouted or called me names. Not like Aaron’s dad. But Mum doesn’t need to yell. Sometimes she just says things, things likeyou don’t have to understandand there’s a warning there, a finality in her words that’s always scared me.
I feel tears forming, burning the whites of my eyes, and—
“No crying,” she says. “You’re far too old for that now.”
I sniff, hard, fighting back the tears. But my hands won’t stop shaking.
Mum looks up, nods at someone behind me. I turn around just in time to spot Paris, Mr. Anderson, waiting with my suitcase. There’s no kindness in his eyes. No warmth at all. He turns away from me, looks at Mum. He doesn’t say hello.
He says: “Has Max settled in yet?”
“Oh, he’s been ready for days.” Mum glances at her watch, distracted. “You know Max,” she says, smiling faintly. “Always a perfectionist.”
“Only when it comes to your wishes,” says Mr. Anderson. “I’ve never seen a grown man so besotted with his wife.”
Mum smiles wider. She seems about to say something, but I cut her off.
“Are you talking about Dad?” I ask, my heart racing. “Will Dad be there?”
My mother turns to me, surprised, like she’d forgotten I was there. She turns back to Mr. Anderson. “How’s Leila doing, by the way?”
“Fine,” he says. But he sounds irritated.
