She stops beneath a massive tree near the center of the orange grove, and I crouch behind a patch of tall grass not far away. The raven from earlier—the one that attacked us on the road, that I would have sworn I saw swooping away from the well when I went looking for Clara—emerges from the leaves.
It just…materializes from the darkness like a shadow come to life, and now I don’t feel wrong or guilty or anything but afraid.
“About time,” it croaks. “Thought you’d forgotten about us.”
I press a hand over my mouth, stifling the shocked huff rising in my throat.
The bird is talking. It really is.
“I had to wait until Adrina went to sleep,” Clara says gently. “I came as soon as I could. And I would never forget about you, Poke. You know better.”
The raven ruffles its feathers, but when it speaks again, it sounds somewhat mollified. “I know a few things. Can’t say if they’re for better or worse. I found an old boat on the far side of the island. It’s damaged, but with a little spit and will, we can fix it.” It motions to the north with one long, inky wing. “We’ll patch the holes tomorrow and test it in the water. Then, you leave it for the boy. Your debt will be paid, all even, and we can be on our way before the end of the new moon.”
“No, Poke. I’m not leaving Declan,” Clara says, her words warming me even though the fact that she has a familiar has my head spinning.
That’s what the bird is. It must be. It’s the only way to explain the talking. The raven is actually a demon in animal form, bound to Clara by magic.
I thought only witches could have familiars, not halflings, but apparently…I was wrong.
“He’s baggage,” the bird croaks as it hops across the ground. “Dumb, ugly, drooly baggage.”
I frown, deciding I don’t like this demon bird.
Not even a little bit.
“And dangerous, to boot,” it adds. I lean in, my ears straining. “What if his fairy mother comes looking for him? Hungry for a mouth full of blood? Hm? What then? Do you think she’ll take the time to sort out that you aren’t the one who stole her babe away? Fairies don’t talk, Glove. Fairies bite and kill and scatter the bones. You know that. Everyone knows that.”
“We don’t know that he’s Fey.” Clara crouches beside the bird, holding out a hand. A moment later, a tinier shadow I hadn’t noticed before climbs into her palm with a squeak. I’m too far away to know for certain, but my gut swears it’s the mouse from the tree, the one that watched me with too-clever eyes, which she’d pretended to be afraid of.
What are you up to, Clara? My throat aches, and a part of me wishes I’d fallen asleep the moment my head hit the hay. I know I have to get to the truth about Clara, but it would have been nice to enjoy the falling-in-love-with-her part a little bit longer. A day maybe. Two? For God’s sake, is that too much to ask? Just a little something simple and good before things get complicated and strange again.
The mouse squeaks, but if it’s talking, too, it’s doing it too softly for me to make out the words. Clara clearly understands it, however.
When it’s finished chittering, she whispers, “Exactly. I’ve heard of human women who were kidnapped by the Fey returning to the human world with their children, but never a man doing the same. And Declan’s father said his mother died in childbirth.”
“And you believe it? Just because he said it was so?” The raven gargles low in its throat in something like a laugh. “Humans lie as easy as breathing. More likely he killed his fairy wife and stole their baby away. And now the UnSeelie court seeks vengeance for his crime. I would bet a years’ worth of new moons that’s why his father spelled those wards, to keep his stolen son safe from the fairies. Poor nightmares are just getting caught in a net meant for other prey.”
Nightmares…
Maybe this bird isn’t a familiar. Maybe it’s…a dream thing. They can take the form of animals, or of smoke or shadow or drops of rain blown into an open window. It’s one of the reasons they’re so dangerous, the way they can hide in plain sight.
“Declan’s father seems like an honest man,” Clara says, warming me again. “But you’re right. He could be lying to protect Declan. I doubt there’s anything he wouldn’t do for his son. But there’s another possibility. One we should at least consider.”
The raven’s gargle becomes a grumble. “Not a chance. No, Glove. No witch I’ve ever heard tale of would give her babe away or let a human take it. She would have spelled the man dead on the spot, buried him in an unmarked grave, and summoned dark spirits to haunt his rest. A daughter is a sacred gift, to be protected at all costs. Never known a witch to have a son, but it would surely be the same.”
Clara’s shoulders hunch and her chin drops; she looks so burdened that I wonder again what happened between her and her mother. If witches consider daughters such a gift, why did her mother leave her alone in a world that’s dangerous, even deadly, for someone who looks like her daughter?
Is it because Clara is half human?
Or did something—
“What if she died?” Clara asks, quieting the questions that swarm through my head. She stands, stroking the small shadow in her palm as she paces away from the tree. “What if Declan’s da is telling the truth about that part? Maybe she passed away and he found Declan in the woods or something?”
“Or killed her himself,” the bird counters, making my blood boil even hotter.
My da is the kindest man in the world. I’ve rarely heard him speak so much as a harsh word, even when disciplining scrappers who more than deserve it. He struggles to kill a fish or a chicken for supper. A person? Out of the question.
But witches aren’t people, are they? And weren’t you just fretting over what Da might do to Clara if he learned the truth about her?
My stomach balls even tighter.
I press a hand to it, willing it stay quiet. I can’t be discovered now, not when I’ve learned so much, but not nearly enough.
“I can’t imagine his father hurting someone, let alone killing them.” Clara lifts her gaze to the sky, where the stars spin without a care for what happens on earth. “But, say he did kill Declan’s mother for being a witch. Why let Declan go free? Why raise him as his own son? Witch hunters won’t suffer a witch to live, even a half witch. Even a child.”
The raven’s feathers puff out until its silhouette looks like kindling tossed into a pile. “I don’t know! And I don’t care. It doesn’t matter, Glove. We have our path, and the boy has his. We must fly. He must return to his cursed island. That’s that and all there is to it!”
“About that…” Clara lifts the mouse to her face. It nuzzles her cheek before hopping onto her shoulder and snuggling against her neck. Once it’s settled, she turns back to the bird, standing up taller as she says, “I’m not going to fly, Poke. One way or another, I’m finished with this. I refuse to ruin another man with my magic. Never again. Not after what I saw tonight.”
The bird squawks loud enough that I flinch, rustling the dry grass of my hiding place. Clara shushes the raven before spinning to look over her shoulder, searching the darkness.