Finn knew it as well as I did. This bargain seemed even worse. The only guarantee was that Finn would be trapped under the mine. Still, he’d do anything for me. And it wasn’t a question of if I’d let him; it was a question of if I could stop him.
The corner of his mouth turned up. He smiled at me. He’d decided.
He reached for the knife.
Before the blade could prick his skin, I yanked at the thousands of knots tied around him. I sank the entire flood of power flowing inside me into pulling the threads loose.
Finn dragged in a shocked, pained breath, his gaze flying to mine.
There was one knot at the center of him holding everything together.
The mine lunged forward, the knife aimed at Finn’s palm. I yanked the knot free, and Finn’s illusion collapsed. It fell like a parachute robbed of all the air beneath it, caving in on itself. Finn stood there for a moment, his eyes wide, a round stone disk flickering in his right hand.
Then he was swallowed by a flash of white light.
The mine twisted, grabbing my arm as the light sped toward me. His icy grip hurt as he hissed, “It’s in your blood but not in your spirit.”
Then the mine was speared by the white light. He was thrown back, and I was catapulted out of the concrete room, back into Cora’s apartment. I slammed to the floor, my head hitting the wood.
I opened my eyes to find Luvic crouching above me, his eyes glowing orange in the morning sunlight.
“Morning,” he growled. Then, when I gasped and struggled to sit upright, he pushed me back and whispered in my ear, “Easy. We’ve got a guest.”
There was a light, tinkling laugh—the sound of dry-bone tree branches and wind chimes blowing in the breeze. Luvic stiffened, and then Winnie’s heart-shaped face appeared over his shoulder. She smiled, her wide, dark eyes full of laughter.
“Morning, Mari. I made coffee. Want some?”
I blinked, wondering how long she’d been here and how long Luvic had been awake. The apartment smelled bitter and dark, tinged with coffee and tears.
Luvic shook his head imperceptibly. He, like most other men in the world, was terrified of Winnie. There was something about the winter bareness, the last frozen, hang-noose gasp of her voice, that unnerved them. Or perhaps it was her fresh-faced, pixie-like looks mixed with the pervasive aura of mournful tears and last requests. No man enjoyed looking into the face of death.
“No, thank you.” I pushed myself up on an elbow even though Luvic remained crouched protectively over me. Then I asked, “Did Jagger send you?”
Winnie wrinkled her nose. “Jagger? No. I’m looking for Justice. Have you seen him?”
71
The wind was not especially concerned with the turning of the universe. The infinite was now, and the wind felt everywhere and everything at once. Infinity wasn’t something that could be pondered; it was only something that could be felt. It was and had been and always would be, and the wind never saw any reason to wonder.
Sometimes, when it poked a human, tossing their hat in the air or ruffling their hair, it thought, Here is an eternal being. The cruel ones, the loud ones, the jealous ones, the murderous ones, the gossiping ones, the sickly ones, the compassionate ones, the lovers, the children, and the mothers—what would they make of themselves in their eternities? Eternal heaven, or eternal hell?
The wind wasn’t concerned with the eternal turning of the universe, but it was surprised humans forgot that even the dullest, most boring of them all was an eternal being capable of the greatest love or the deepest horrors. What was boring about that?
Maybe it was easier for a being to forget. To think that nothing they did mattered. But the wind, being the wind, had seen a whisper start a war, a mosquito bite bring down a nation, a single kindness save a world.
The wind preferred small things to cosmic things. An étude to an opera. A haiku to an epic poem. A puff of air to a hurricane. Small things distilled grand things to a scale a being could comprehend.
When a being made a choice on whether to pick up a dollar bill the wind had thrown into the air and give it back to the owner or to keep it for oneself—well . . . that seemingly inconsequential choice had more eternal significance than any being could comprehend. All the small dramas were microcosms of the greatest drama of all, and each action reverberated through eternity.
Everything a being did mattered. Every action. Every thought. Every choice.
Every human had eternity inside of them, and the wind wondered why they forgot.
Perhaps they didn’t. Perhaps they knew that every choice they made had eternal significance. What did the wind know? Only secrets. Only sorrows. Only things hidden and locked in human hearts.
It didn’t want to think of grand, cosmic things today. It only wanted to follow the trail of sunshine, flutter down the constellation of pollen, and land on the satiny-soft rose petal resting next to the citrus and pearl dust scented woman’s cheek.
The woman sighed, her soft exhale tickling the wind as it circled the pink rose petal and slid into its sloping cup. The wind curled tightly, enjoying the summer scents and the sun trickling across the boy’s bed. The sun was as warm as the honey the boy spun in long, golden ribbons over his toasted crumpets. Perhaps he’d make the woman breakfast. They’d enjoy it in bed. A pot of steaming tea, a plate of crumpets with butter melting in each hole, wildflower honey dripping in sweet, glossy dollops.
