“What? You’re hungry?” He winced. “I think there’s some aphids left.” He turned in a slow circle, frowning. “I don’t remember where I put . . .”
The cricket jumped, hitting the bamboo slats and bouncing off. It jumped again, throwing itself against the door.
“Hey,” the trickster said. “Hey. Easy.” He kneeled down in front of the cage again. “If you don’t want to be in there, I won’t keep you. Remember? You’re free if”—he unlatched the door, and the cricket sprang free—“you want.”
The trickster blinked, staring at the empty cage.
Then he shrugged and muttered, “Didn’t like it anyway.”
He pulled his shirt over his head, mussing his black hair. The jackaltooth was ravaging his chest, the gray eating away at the gold of his skin. Soon, it would spread over his entire chest and back and run over his limbs and up his throat. When it covered him completely, he would cease to be a man.
At the dresser, he pulled free a clean shirt and pair of pants. He grabbed a towel and swung it over his shoulder. He walked toward the soapy scent of mint and lavender and then stopped as he passed the boy’s mirror.
The trickster turned slowly, his movements careful.
His breath flew from him, and the muscles in his back tensed.
“Cora?”
He looked around the room, scanning the empty space where the lucky one was standing in the reflection.
When he didn’t see her, his expression crumpled, his mouth trembled, and he let out a heaving, anguished breath. Then he stalked to the mirror and pressed his hands to the cold glass.
“Cora. Can you hear me? Are you in there? Did the Ward . . . did that psychotic maniac trap you in there? Cora? Are you . . .?” He curled his hand as if he wanted to dig through the glass. The lucky one stared back at him. Not speaking. Not moving.
The trickster shuddered, then he clenched his hand into a fist and hit the side of his palm against the mirror.
Behind him, the cricket began to sing. It was an urgent, mournful plea.
The trickster looked behind him, staring in surprise at the singing creature.
“You see her too?” the trickster asked.
The cricket jumped away at his question. When the trickster turned back to the mirror, the lucky one was gone.
Quickly, he looked back at the space where the cricket had been.
“Wait,” he said, dropping to his hands and knees. “Wait. Come back. Don’t?—”
The cricket hopped into the rectangle of sunlight. It glittered over its brown back and highlighted its wings in a rich gold. The cricket stroked its forewings together and began to sing a sweet song.
The trickster stared for a long moment and then slowly turned to the mirror. The lucky one was there again.
The trickster made a half-man, half-jackaltooth noise. “Cora?” he asked, but this time, he wasn’t facing the mirror—he was kneeling in front of the cricket.
“If it’s you,” he whispered, “come hold my hand.”
He held open his palm, lowering it toward the cricket. He waited patiently, his hand barely trembling, as the cricket slowly crept toward him.
Then it leaped onto his palm, and the trickster let out a violent, stunned, agonized breath.
“Holy . . .” he said as the cricket chirruped. “It wasn’t the psychotic Ward—it was my psychotic wife. And I . . . I almost killed you,” he whispered. “She turned you into a cricket, and I almost—” He swallowed painfully, cutting himself off.
The lucky one made a sharp whistling noise that sounded like a reprimand.
The trickster swallowed, his mouth trembling. “I thought . . . I thought she’d killed you. How?” He shook his head. “Never mind. Is this illusion? It doesn’t feel . . . I can’t tell. We have to . . . Let me think . . .”
The cricket hopped from his palm and landed on his bare shoulder. The trickster looked down at it and smiled.
