She must have been struck by lightning. But if the boat had been hit, I would have felt it, and there would be fire or—
“Clara!” I shout as she staggers backward.
I drop the oars and reach for her, but then agony hits me like a tidal wave crashing into shore. Fireworks race up my spine and explode in my brain. My stomach revolts, but my throat clenches too tight to let the sick out as I jerk and flail.
I’m vaguely aware of Clara falling to the floor of the boat before I collapse beside her—knocking her poor head with my knee in the process—but I can’t stop myself from writhing and kicking and scrabbling at the floorboards.
I’m a bug under a shoe, a match on fire, bones with all the meat ripped away by teeth sharp as razors, cruel as nature.
I lift my hands to the sky, praying with every gnarled finger as my nerves sizzle and burst and the world goes black.
Chapter Seven
Foxglove
I don’t know how long we’re tossed by the storm, but eventually the night grows black and quiet.
Thick clouds still smother most of the light from the sky, but the rain stops, and the boat ceases its heaving and rocks me like a lullaby. I wake to see Wig and Poke sheltering together under Declan’s seat and Declan lying on the planks beside me, his chest rhythmically rising and falling.
I’m so tired I can barely focus my eyes, so weary the few stars in the gloom overhead wink on and off like lighthouses on a distant shore. Declan’s familiar face suddenly seems that of a stranger. There’s something troubling about the boy lying next to me, but I can’t pinpoint it or be bothered enough to come fully awake.
I am wrung out.
My magic has returned—it simmers beneath my skin, but I’m too exhausted to make use of it. Going through the wards the second time was even more painful than the first. I imagine a third time would kill me.
Witch’s daughters aren’t meant to pass through that kind of magic and come out whole on the other side.
But a human should be fine. A human should be…
So…why…
I grasp at the thought, but any conclusions slip through my fingers, I sink back into inexorable sleep.
By the time my heavy lids drag open again, the sun is directly overhead, beating down on the boat.
I wince and lift an arm to block the glare, moaning as I wrinkle my nose and the tight, hot skin covering it stings in protest.
“You’re awake! Thank the stars and the moon and every last one of the planets.” I look to see Poke hopping up and down on my hip. His bird claws tickle through the nearly dry fabric of my skirt, and the feathers on his head stand on end with excitement.
He’s a starling again, though we agreed an albatross was more appropriate for this part of the world. But larger forms take more energy for small plantings, and I’m sure Wig and Poke are as exhausted as I am after their night at sea.
“So afraid, so afraid, so afraid,” Wig chitters as he scurries on mouse feet across the boards to leap onto my chest. He stands trembling on his hind legs, tiny pink hands clasped over his furry gray belly, so close that my eyes cross a bit when I look at him. “Gave us a turn, gave us a turn.”
“Step back, give Glove some room, rodent,” Poke grouses, needling the tip of one wing into Wig’s soft shell of an ear.
Wig crouches low and bunches his shoulders, but he doesn’t move away. He grabs tiny handfuls of my dress and holds tight. I won’t be able to pull him from my side for weeks after a separation like this one.
Thank the universe it was only a separation.
They aren’t hurt or lost. They’re right here, close enough that I smell the cosmos dust of the night garden lingering on their feathers and fur.
“I’m so glad you’re both all right.” I scoop Wig into my palm as I sit up, stroking his trembling back with a gentle finger. Poke lands on my shoulder, nudging me with his beak until I turn and rub his feathered cheek with mine.
He ruffles all over and clucks low in his throat. “Of course, we are. I can take care of myself and keep an eye on the worm. I know you’re fond of the pest.”
“I’m fond of you both,” I say, setting Wig on the bare boards beside me. “I’m so glad you...”
My words trail away.
I reach out, flattening my hand on the sun-warmed wood at the bottom of the boat. There should be something here, something other than sunshine and dried seaweed and a tiny white feather Poke must have shed sometime during the night.
There should be something there, someone…
“Declan,” I whisper, my heart leaping.
I come to my knees and turn in a frantic circle, sending Poke into the air with a snap of his wings.
“The scamp’s here.” Poke alights near the stern, where the sail covers a lump that seems too small and still to be Declan. “Wrapped him up last night. His teeth were clacking like horse’s hooves. Not even a nightmare could sleep through that ruckus.”
“Shivery, shivery, shivery,” agrees Wig, pressing tight to my thigh. “Poor planting, terrible sick, sick.”
“He’s no planting,” Poke says with a disdainful squawk. “No planting ever whimpered like a dog from being cold and wet.”
“Humans feel the cold more intensely than we do. You know that,” I murmur, genuinely annoyed with Poke for the first time I can remember. I am used to his churlishness, but it seems wrong to criticize Declan for things he can’t change. Especially while he’s unconscious.
“He’s not human like anything I’ve ever seen,” Poke sniffs. “But not a planting, either. Frankly, I don’t know what he is.”
I sigh and lift my eyes to the sky. “Of course, he’s human.”
“Not with that head of hair.”
“Bluer than the sea, the sea, the sea,” Wig agrees, making my brow knit.
What in the…
I crawl across the boat, climbing over the wooden seat on legs rubbery from too much time on the water. I tug the thick canvas from the too-small-to-be-Declan lump, but I only bare his head and shoulders before my arm goes limp with surprise.
Declan is still the same Declan—paler and more fragile looking in sleep than he seemed the night before—but he’s different, too.
Wig was right. His hair has gone bright blue, the color of tropical butterfly wings shot through with darker strands that shimmer like stained glass windows. It’s a delicious shade that begs my fingers to tangle in its curls and unfold them to the light to let the colors dance.
But I’m too afraid to touch him.
“I don’t understand.” I draw a lock of my own hair in front of my face, relieved to see that it has returned to its familiar lilac-and-thunderstorm hue. “His hair wasn’t that color before.”
“Well, it is now, and I don’t like it. Or him,” Poke says with a jab of one clawed foot. “Strange thing, that one. Nightmare hair, but not a speck of star-smell on him.”
“He’s not a thing. He’s my friend, and you’ll speak kindly of him. And to him when he wakes.” I don’t miss the widening of Poke’s eyes—I rarely chastise him, even when he deserves it for playing cruel tricks on Wig—but I don’t apologize.