At that, the wind had gusted and laughed. The wind didn’t love. It was the wind. Why would the wind love a thing, much less a something?
“You will,” she said, her fawn-like eyes grave. “And you’ll want to stay close to protect them. But you can’t, Wind. You can’t stay with them always. You’ll want to protect them, but—Wind, listen—you can’t always protect who you love.”
The wind didn’t believe her. First, it would never love. Second, of course it could always protect. It was the wind. It was powerful. It was mighty. It was . . .
“It’s not listening,” the man had said.
But the wind had been. The fawn-like one had continued. “If you’re the last of us left, you’ll have a choice. You’ll want to be with the one you love, but if you stay with them, then . . .”—she’d frowned—“everyone dies, Wind. Everyone.”
What did the wind care? It had huffed. There were always new beings to play with, new sunrises to roll in, new shoots of grass to smell.
“You don’t understand, but you will. When the choice comes . . . this is important . . . they have to do it on their own. They have to do it alone. You know what’s coming. At least, as much as we do.”
It was not something they ever talked about. It was taboo to mention even this much. But the fawn-like one was adamant. She’d shaken the branch where the wind had been spinning lazily. The glade in Central Park was cool and sweet-smelling that day.
“Listen! I’m telling you, it’s going to hurt. I can’t see much, but I see that. It’ll hurt to leave them, but you have to do it, or everyone dies, and the world becomes a still place, a barren, dead place. A place without wind. Do you understand me? Do you understand?”
The wind had fallen like a leaf snapped from its branch. It had settled on the flattened grass and stared up at the fawn-like one’s pale face. Were her brothers not giving her enough blood? Was she weak? Was that why she looked so sick and pale? Or was it fear?
The wind had sighed. There was nothing to fear. There was no such thing as a world without wind. It had left the glade and decided not to think about that moment again. It had locked it in a secret box and never opened it.
But now, as the thinness tore at it, and an agony of sensation poured over it, it remembered the fawn-like one had sworn the wind would hurt.
She’d known it would love.
She’d seen it wouldn’t want to leave its boy.
But if it didn’t make itself thin, would the trickster, the citrus and pearl dust scented one, the girl, the solemn one, the innocent one—all of them—would they all die?
The boy wouldn’t want that. Before, that would’ve been enough. But now, the wind didn’t want that either.
It spread itself thin and teased through the cavalcade of sound. It watched. It listened. It was.
The trickster turned the cool brass handle of his bedroom door. The unfinished Bard mansion was a hollow, empty, desolate thing. The smell of wilting roses, charred wedding vines, and spilled champagne filtered down the empty marble halls.
At least the air was cool, but the trickster didn’t seem to notice. His appearance was altered enough that no one would recognize him unless they’d memorized the tilt of his smile or the irrepressible mischief that always lingered in his eyes.
He was weary. He rolled his shoulders and dragged a hand down his face. When he shut the door, he rested his head against the wood, closing his eyes.
A small, whistled chirrup brushed across the room.
The trickster ignored the noise.
The sound grew until it was a loud, insistent song.
Surprised, the trickster swore, turning quickly and striding across the room.
The late-afternoon sun shone through a slit in the curtains, sending a rectangle of buttery light over the silk rug. The trickster stepped through it and yanked the satin pillowcase off the cricket’s bamboo cage.
“Oh,” the trickster said, crouching down. He positioned himself so his eyes were even with the cage. “You’re still here,” he said, sounding surprised. His lips turned up. “I mean, of course you’re still here. You’re locked in a cage—where else would you be? I only meant I forgot about you. I’m sorry.”
He dropped the pillowcase, and it fluttered to land in the rectangle of sunlight.
He stood and rubbed the back of his neck. “I hate that I’m talking to an insect. You get that, right? But . . . when you’ve hit bottom . . .”
He shrugged and began to pull off his shirt.
He stopped, dropping the fabric when the cricket’s song grew more urgent.
