Chapter 42
Rowe
As soon as the words leave my mouth, Pane pulls me into a hug, kisses the top of my head, and whispers, “Congratulations. You just saved your farm.”
There’s still so much to work out: How will I part with my precious piggycorns? How many will it take to light up a community? How am I going to manage growing starfizz berriesandraising piggycorns? But I’ve got Pane beside me, and that’s all that matters.
And right then my heart expands. I feel like the Grinch inHow the Grinch Stole Christmas, when his heart breaks the bands encasing it. My heart overflows with love. Nothing—not one thing—can yank this feeling away.
While I’ve got my face pressed into Pane’s chest, inhaling his amazing scent, I hear murmurs and gasps around me.
He strokes my head and whispers, tickling the hair surrounding my ear, “Look up, little Sunbeam.”
When I do, my heart nearly pops out of my chest. I blink, wipe my eyes to make sure I’m really seeing what I’m seeing.
A patch of earth in front of the house, about twenty feet long, glows with light, illuminating the grass all the way to the tip of each blade. But unlike all the other times when I’ve seen this happen, this timethere’s no catalyst. The wind isn’t blowing; the air is still. But even so, the earth buzzes with energy.
As I watch, vines unwind from the ground and shoot into the sky. They stretch like long, elegant fingers, jutting way up before stopping their ascent. They hang in the air for a brief second, swaying lightly in the breeze, before curling their tips back down and plunging into the rubble like a swimmer diving off a cliff.
From underneath the pile of debris, the clang of snapping and popping fills the air. It sounds like bones cracking and glass shattering all over again.
“Is the house going to fall into a hole?” someone whispers.
“No. It’s being fixed,” I hear myself realize.
Shingles rise into the air, lifted by the vining ropes that stretch unnaturally from the earth. More vines dive down into the mess and resurface, bringing with them panes of glass and cracked planks of wood.
Orbs of magic lift from the ground like sprites. They surround the rubble that’s risen from the dead and, quick as lightning, spin in a blur. The air around the house seems to exhale, and as it breathes, the shattered and destroyed planks of wood and shards of glass swirl with it. Planks click and clack as they snap back the way they were. Glass grinds and shingles scrape as they are stitched, becoming whole once more.
“Holy cow,” Cristina says, her voice overflowing with awe. “Rowe, what did you do?”
I shake my head, unable to put into words what I’m feeling, watching in disbelief as the broken and destroyed house—the wood splintered to dust and the glass ground into powder—spins, creating a vortex that whips the air around us. My shirt flutters. My legs shake as the house spins and spins, until it finally lands with an earth-shakingthump.
The very world stills as we stare in silence at the house—myhouse, the Wadley farm—as it stands tall and proud in the middle of the yard.
And then, just like when Pane bested Coleman Barrier’s chain saw challenge, what feels like the entire population of Mystic Meadowserupts into applause. The power of it hits me in the solar plexus, choking me up.
Honestly, I’m not sure if it’s the love of this town or the love of the earth for me, but I’m overcome with emotions.
And all is right in the world.
There is a party at Sparkle Bar, of all places, to celebrate Pane’s win, me gaining back the farm, and the house being rebuilt. Not only has the whole town shown up, but Pane’s brother arrived, too. His mother has even stayed.
Pane has changed into a three-piece suit that Sylvia brought, and he now looks like the powerful CEO and president of an international company.
He makes me proud.
I’ve changed into my best dress (I wore it to Jennifer and Ron’s wedding several years ago). Music plays, people celebrate, and Pane Maddox is man of the hour.
Someone notified the press of the contest, and news crews have shown up as well. They’ve been pelting Sylvia with questions, but soon enough it’ll be Pane’s turn.
I push up onto my tiptoes and place my elbow on Pane’s shoulder. He’s been talking to Isaac and Ron, but at the intrusion, he turns my way and wraps an arm around my waist.
“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen.”
“It’s no interruption,” Isaac confesses. “I was just congratulating Pane.”
“And I”—Pane kisses my cheek—“have been dodging every reporter possible.”
