“Thanks, Raggie. Thank you.”
He put his hand on her back. “We’re family. We trust each other. Me. You. Luvic.”
“And no one else” remained unspoken, but the wind heard it in the way the Bard siblings stood.
There was a soft tap on the door. They stiffened, and the woman stepped back from her brother. They conjured at the same time, shifting into new forms. The woman became the giant rude man. The musician became the bald, cabbage and toothpaste scented man in greasy, stained clothing.
The musician crept to the door and peeked through the peephole. Slowly, he unlocked the dead bolts, unlatched the chain, lifted the floor bolt, and inched open the door.
No one was there.
Even the wind, who could scent nearly everything, couldn’t smell who had knocked.
There was a white box on the floor. It was wrapped with a red ribbon. A card was tucked underneath an elaborate bow. There was writing on the card. The wind traced over it—and there, it caught a hint of the boy.
So he’d left his gift on the doorstep instead of giving it to the woman in person.
The wind laughed. Was he nervous she’d reject the gift, or was he nervous she’d reject him?
“It’s for you,” the musician said.
The two of them stared at the box as if the red ribbon were a venomous snake, and if they touched it, they’d be bitten.
Then the box shook, and a small whimper sounded from inside.
The woman gasped.
“Lia, don’t!”
She didn’t listen—she grabbed the box and pulled it inside the apartment. She ripped the ribbon away, ignored the card, and tore the lid open.
“Oh!” She let out a sharp puff of air. “Oh. Hello.”
A small white puppy poked its head out of the box. When it saw the woman, it whimpered and then boosted on its hind legs and pawed at the box’s edge. It was so small it could curl in the crook of the woman’s arms. Its nose was the most prominent feature. It was black and wet and very large. It had a long pink tongue, and it was desperately trying to lick the woman’s fingers.
She laughed and lifted the puppy out of the box.
“Who are you?”
“Lia. Don’t touch it! It could be poison. It could be?—”
She laughed as the puppy licked her face. It squirmed and wriggled, trying to crawl closer.
“It’s a bichon,” she said.
“A what?” The musician glared at the puppy.
“A dog, Ragnor. It’s a dog.”
He closed the apartment door and squatted next to the woman. He stared at the dog, but instead of cowering, it wagged its pom-pom tail, and when he didn’t smile, it let out an insistent bark.
The woman laughed and buried her face in the puppy’s plush fur. She took a deep breath. “You smell real. Are you real?”
The puppy licked her cheek.
The wind stroked its ears. They were velvety-soft. Its fur was curled with a dense plush undercoat, making it feel like a soft bed of cattail fluff. Its heart was beating as fast as a hummingbird’s, and it smelled like fragile, newborn hope.
The puppy stared at the woman with a bright, adoring expression. She held it close and stared into its eyes.
