The boy nodded and then gestured for the wind to follow her.
The citrus and pearl dust scented woman glanced over her shoulder. Maybe she’d sensed the wind shifting the air. That was more likely than her noticing the boy.
“If someone is following me,” the woman said in a quiet seaside voice, “please know, if I find you, I will cut off your hands, skewer them on sticks, and use them to play the guitar. Badly.”
The wind huffed in outrage, but the boy scrunched his eyes closed, pressed his lips tight, and tried very hard not to laugh. He held his breath, his shoulders shaking. The wind flicked his reddening ears.
The woman waited, tapping her foot on the sidewalk. “Well?”
The boy didn’t answer. He remained hidden. The wind shoved him, and he shook his head and gestured again for the wind to follow her.
Well. The wind didn’t have hands, so the woman’s threat was air and nothing else. Besides, she’d never noticed the wind, and she wouldn’t now.
She wasn’t masked as the giant rude man, or even as one of the other men she’d been. Instead, she was almost herself. Petite. She only reached the boy’s shoulders, and he wasn’t nearly as tall as the solange-eyed one or even the trickster. Fine-boned, but with the lush waves in her form that human beings enjoyed so much. Her face was almost the same, except her eyes were blue instead of brown, her hair long and pale instead of black. All the same, it was her.
If the wind hadn’t realized, it would’ve known it by the heady throb of the boy’s pulse. He always had this lub dub lub dub beat when the woman was near.
She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes on the space where the boy was standing. Then she shook herself off like a cat after a rainstorm and turned toward the fortress.
“Go,” the boy whispered.
The woman twisted her hand and disappeared. The wind raced after her and grabbed the cuff of her shirt. When a pair of Smiths opened the front door, the woman ducked under their arms and snuck unseen into the fortress.
Only the all-seeing eye gave a quick blink at her entry, acknowledging the river of good flowing through her. The Smiths didn’t notice the eye’s blink nor the invisible woman.
The wind laughed. She’d timed her entry well. Every thirty minutes, a Smith or two left the mansion to walk the perimeter. It was a security measure that left a hole in their security.
The woman smiled to herself and hurried through the stone hall. The wind kept ahold of her shirtsleeve like a child holding its mother’s hand in a busy city. There were some Smiths awake, but she avoided them by tiptoeing along the perimeter of rooms and the edges of hallways.
She knew exactly where she was going.
When the musician had angrily asked, “Why are you going into the Smith stronghold? Why?” she’d replied coolly, “Because I said I would.”
“But it’s dangerous! Stealing the lyre? For a Ward? We have better things?—”
“First, it’s not dangerous. I know exactly where it is and how to get it. Second, I gave my word. I don’t break my word, Raggie.”
“A Ward doesn’t know that.”
She’d lifted her hand to the necklace she wore. The musician’s eyes narrowed on her gesture.
She’d nodded. “He doesn’t. But I do.”
The musician’s jaw muscles had clenched. “Then I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
They’d stared at each other for a long moment. The wind knew a battle when it saw one. Finally, the musician had blown out a harsh breath, swore, and then turned and stalked away.
The musician was worried about his sister, but he didn’t need to be. The wind was there, and the boy too. Although, of course, the boy wasn’t coming into the Smiths’ home.
On the subway ride to Queens, he’d explained it to the wind. “You know I have to steer clear of the Smiths. If they kill me, it’s all over. If I kill them, it’s all over. It’s too risky for me to sneak into their home.”
The wind had moaned. It didn’t want to think about what would happen to the boy if he walked through the Smiths’ front door like the man had.
“You’ll help her when she goes for the lyre?” he’d asked.
Of course the wind would. It liked the woman. It liked her voice. It liked the thought of her strumming the lyre. The wind had reminded the boy it was the one who’d told him to save her during the Bard game.
