The solemn one reached up and pressed two fingers to his lips. Then he twisted his hand, conjuring. The tingle of illusion fell over the wind, stirring dust and blood as it swept over the cell’s rocky floor.
The wind studied the solemn one. The hard edge of his still soft mouth; his gray eyes, so like the rag man’s shroud; the scar trailing a tear from his right eye.
You’re not alone, the wind whispered.
The boy would know what to do. He would know the right thing to say. He was why the wind was here. He was why the wind cared.
Before, it didn’t matter what a human did or didn’t do. Whether they laughed or whether they cried. Whether their hopes lived or died. The wind didn’t care if a being was a glory or a horror. But now . . . the wind cared.
It was not anyone. It was not anything. It was not God. It was not the girl. It was not the boy or even the pixie-like one. It was nothing. It was only the wind.
Sometimes, it was magnificent. Sometimes, it was a courageous, wondrous, glorious being.
But other times, it was only a being. Only a thing. Only a spirit who was trying to be human enough for the boy.
Now, it would try to be something for this man.
I’m here, it whispered.
It was nothing. It was nothing. But it was there.
Perhaps the solemn one would find a new hope in the depths. Perhaps . . .
The solemn one let out a long, shuddering sigh. Then his eyes turned a brittle, hard-knifed gray.
He opened the cell door—it had never been locked.
He left the wind in the dark. Alone.
The solemn one walked from his cell a different man.
A man alone and without hope.
79
“You’ll have to be everywhere today,” the boy said, hurrying down the cloud-shadowed sidewalk. He was out of breath, half-jogging, half-sprinting toward the subway. His messy blond hair stood up like a field of wheat in a windstorm, and the wind blew at the strands, messing it even more.
“I know you hate spreading thin,” the boy said, pushing his hair out of his eyes, “but . . . something’s coming. Something . . .”
He quickly glanced at the sky, and the wind moaned, pressing against his side.
The wind didn’t hate anything. Hate was a human emotion. It hadn’t become quite human enough to take it on, but it would admit that when it stretched its tendrils from the crashing waves at the base of the island, all the way to the sheer, rocky cliffs at its north, it felt . . . breathless. It felt as thin as a wispy, insubstantial, evaporating cloud in the upper atmosphere.
When it stretched itself that thin, it wasn’t able to blow or gust or shove or stroke. It was only able to listen, to float, to be barely anywhere and wholly everywhere at the same time.
Everywhere and nowhere.
It didn’t feel like the wind when it stretched itself thin. It felt like a ball of wool that had been spun into a thread that stretched for miles but was as insubstantial as a spider web.
If the wind stretched thin, it wouldn’t be able to help the boy. It would only be able to witness. To listen. It would be a watching thing.
“I know you’re worried,” the boy said, dodging a taxi as he jogged across the street. He ducked under the thin metal legs of sidewalk scaffolding and skipped past a hill of black trash bags. They kicked out a rancid, heat-fermented, sweet-sour garbage scent.
The wind shoved the odor back, swirling a newspaper and knocking a paper cup down the sidewalk as it rushed after the boy.
It was not worried. It never worried. It . . .
The boy tilted his chin toward the wind and flashed a laughing grin. His forest-green eyes lit with amusement, crinkling at the edges. The wind flicked his ear. Stupid boy. Why was he laughing?
