Drawing a shuddered breath, I reach into my pocket and pull out the smaller bloom now entirely calcified, albeit a little chipped in places from being stuffed in my pocket while I crawled through a labyrinth of tunnels.
Hairline fractures crackle across the dome, and I pluck and squish and smooth those little luster beads, bogging up the gaps. A cold blast seeps through my veins, and I wobble, gripping hold of a root to steady myself.
Dropping my chin to my chest, I swallow thickly, tightening my bloody hand around the bloom, the hardened petals digging into the raw wound made by that shard of glass.
A lump forms in my throat as I realize what I have to do.
* * *
My arms take most of the damage as I shove through a thorny bush cushioning the base of Parith’s mail tree. I stumble into an opening sheltered by leafy branches that stretch far and wide, strung with strings of lanterns that emit a golden glow—what I now realize is likely from the worms that have been stuffed inside the glassy coffins.
The blue-stone fence that wraps around the tree gives it a healthy berth, providing protection from the people bartering, laughing, and singing just on the other side.
Market square.
I creep around the gnarly trunk and step into the wooden booth by the tree’s base, the air above me rife with the soft hum of beating wings. The fluttering commotion slows, and a sea of tiny faces peer out of gloomy holes, peeking down at me from their frail perches.
A slew of oily guilt pumps through me.
Do the sprites know what I did? Do they whisper amongst themselves about the girl who saved one of their own? How strange, when her hands were covered in the blood of another.
Murderer.
I pull my gaze from their curious stares and shove the thorny thought deep, burying it beside the crystal dome.
Dragging a trembling breath, I open the wooden latch on the mailing box, take one of the tiny slips of parchment from the stack, and lean in close to scrawl my message upon it with a sharpened stick of coal—the paper too fine and thin for words so hard and heavy. After rolling it into a tight scroll, I scratch a name on it, fasten it with twine, then reach for the long string, its length garnished with golden bells that jingle when I give it a firm tug. “I have a message for somebody …”
Silence ensues—the awkward, hungry kind, as though they’re waiting for me to confess.
I just murdered the Western High Master.
Part of me wants to scream it so I can remove some of the crippling weight stashed inside my chest.
Finally, a sprite flutters down, landing on the table in a flurry of long, ruddy hair and wings the color of autumn leaves. She looks at the name and nods, takes the scroll, then slides it into the holster tucked between her wings, her movements slowing when she notices my cupla.
Clearing my throat, I shove it farther up my arm and dig into my pocket. I pinch the smallest bloom and pull it out, extending it toward her.
Her eyes widen as she looks at it, then at me, thenabove.I do the same, seeing every sprite in the tree hanging over the edge of branches or out the lips of their hollows, gazes locked on the tiny crystal bloom.
My skin nettles.
The sprite bounces onto my hand, picks up the bloom, gives me a shy curtsey, then darts into the air in a flutter of tawny tones, disappearing through the branches with my grief strapped to her back …
It’s a wonder she can fly at all.
Ihurry through crowded streets, the afternoon air warm and sticky, rich with smells of roasting meat, sweet smoke, and salty brine. The cobbles are hot beneath my feet, saturated in sunshine hammering down from a near-cloudless sky.
I stick to the shadows where I can, away from the searing heat. From the glare of the sun upon my skin.
My soul.
I finally find a fountain set within the side of a building and plunge my hands into the cold water, digging my thumbs into my palms and scrubbing hard.Heswirls down the drain in lazy turns, and a lump forms in my throat.
“I saved lives,” I murmur as more cracks weave across the crystal dome, and I pluck and squish and smooth and bog, then smear a layer of light upon the shield. The world seems to tip, ice shooting through my veins, and I waver, planting my weight against a lofty street lantern, teeth chattering.
Breathe …
Breathe …
