The sequins caught the light, and she blinked as the solemn one advanced on her. He had another knife in his hand. His face was cold, his gray eyes darker than night.
The Bard’s wife looked up at the solemn one, and her face leached to white. She lifted her hand—not like she was warding herself from death, but like she was inviting him close.
“I knew . . .” she whispered. “I knew someday, you’d come.”
The solemn one narrowed his eyes. His shadow fell over the woman. The sequins on her dress lost their glitter.
He shrugged at the pale tinge of her lips. “Death comes for us all.”
She shook her head. A tear leaked from the corner of her eye. She began to choke. The solemn one leaned down, ready to end her life.
“Son . . .” she whispered. “Don’t . . .”
The solemn one froze. He stared into the woman’s sharp face.
“Your son won’t save you,” he said. “He’ll be dead before this is all over.”
She lifted her hand, and instead of cutting her down, the solemn one let her touch the constellation of freckles on his cheek.
“You were dead,” she said, “the moment Ragnor left you at Hell Gate. You’ve haunted me my whole life. I knew you’d come.”
The solemn one grabbed the woman’s wrist. The light of her spirit was slowly leaking from her eyes.
“What did you say?” the solemn one asked. “What did you just say?” He leaned close, gripping her to him.
The wind couldn’t curl close to her chest to hear the struggling thud of her heart, but it knew she didn’t have long to live.
“Are you . . .?” The solemn one stared at the knife in the woman’s chest. The blood seeping free had slowed. His expression froze.
Was there right?
Was there wrong?
Was this something he would regret?
“No.” He shook his head vehemently. “No. You aren’t my mother. If you were my mother, you would never have left me in Hell Gate. You would never. You’re a liar.” He shook her, and she coughed raggedly. “I’m not a Bard. A Bard would never have been forced to do—” He clenched his jaw, anguish painted on his face. “I’m not a Bard. I’m not?—”
The Bard’s wife—she didn’t look like any of her children—blinked at the solemn one. She looked like she was viewing him through the dark currents of a midnight ocean. Slowly, she pressed her thumb and her first two fingers together. She twisted her hand.
The solemn one didn’t stop her.
She slumped forward, and as her breath rattled free, she painted an illusion in the air.
It was stunningly similar to the illusions the solemn one had often painted for the girl.
But instead of a distant hope or a beloved dream, this scene was a memory.
The wind flew into the illusion and watched.
“Mama, what’s wrong? Mama, stop crying! Stop crying!” The little one, the musician as a young boy, buried himself against his mother’s side.
He was a beautiful boy—his mother always told him so. He had shining black hair, luminous eyes, and a voice that sounded like an angel’s. He’d always been able to make her smile or laugh, but this time, he couldn’t.
She kept weeping, her eyes red, her face splotchy.
“Mama?” the musician whispered. He began to sing her their favorite song. It was the song about a rabbit who was lost in the woods and had an adventure, until finally, its mother found it and brought it home.
But unlike other days when his mother was sad, this time, the song didn’t cheer her up.
