Текст книги "Unearthly"

Автор книги: Cynthia Hand

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

“Did you want something, Mom?”

“Yes, I wanted to remind you that you and I have a date to practice our yoga tonight.”

It takes me a second to catch up. And freak out a little.

“Couldn’t we do it some other time? I’m kind of busy at the—”

“I know you girls are having such fun, but I have to steal you for some mother-daughter time.”

“I need to go, anyway,” mumbles Wendy. “I’ve got to finish this homework.”

“You look lovely, Wendy,” says Mom, beaming at her. “What about shoes?”

“I think my black pumps will work.”

Mom shakes her head. “No black pumps with that dress.”

“We’re going to look for earrings in Jackson tomorrow,” I offer. “We could look for shoes too.”

Wendy starts to squirm unhappily at the suggestion. There aren’t any shoe stores in Jackson that aren’t priced for tourists.

“Or,” Mom says, “we could skip Jackson and bring out the big guns. Road trip to Idaho Falls this weekend?”

I can’t tell if she’s been eavesdropping or if she and I just think on the same wavelength. “Sometimes,” I tell her with a grin, “it’s like you can read my mind.”

“Wendy doesn’t have a lot of money, you know,” I say to Mom when Wendy is safely off the property. The sun’s setting behind the mountains. I’m standing in a tank top and sweatpants in the backyard, shivering, trying to wrap a wool scarf around my neck. “So this thing in Idaho Falls for shoes, don’t go dragging us into some fancy department store. It will embarrass her.”

“I was thinking Payless,” Mom says primly. “I thought it might be nice to have some girl time. You really haven’t had much of that since we moved here.”

“Okay.”

“I also thought you could bring Angela along. Does she have a date for prom?”

I stop fiddling with the scarf and stare at her. “Yeah. She does.”

“So she can come too.”

“Why?”

“I want to know your friends, Clara. You bring Wendy to the house all the time, but you never bring Angela. So I want to meet her. I think it’s time.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I know you’re nervous about it, but you shouldn’t be,” she says. “I’ll behave.”

It’s not really Mom I’m worried about. Or maybe it is. “Okay, I’ll ask her.”

“Wonderful. Lose the scarf,” says Mom.

“It’s freezing!”

“It could snag.”

She has a point. I dump the scarf.

“Do we have to do this now? I’m taking a class in aerodynamics at school, you know. I’m acing it, by the way.”

“That’s about flying a plane. This is about you. You need to train, Clara. I’ve let you have all winter to get adjusted. Now you need to focus on your purpose so you’ll be ready when fire season starts. It’s only a few months away.”

“I know,” I say glumly.

“Now, please.”

“Okay, fine.”

I unfold my wings behind me. It’s been a while since I’ve had them out. At least it’s gotten easier to summon them; I don’t have to say the words in Angelic anymore. I still think my wings are beautiful—soft and white and perfect as an owl’s. But at the moment they seem huge and silly, like a cheesy prop in a bad movie.

“Good, stretch them out,” says Mom.

I extend them as far as I can, until their weight begins to strain my shoulders.

“To get off the ground you must lighten yourself.” She keeps saying this and I have no clue how to do it.

“Next you’re going to sprinkle me with pixie dust and tell me to think happy thoughts,” I grumble.

“Clear your mind.”

“Done.”

“Starting with the attitude.”

I sigh.

“Try to relax.”

I stare at her helplessly.

“Try closing your eyes,” she says. “Take deep breaths in your nose and out through your mouth. Imagine yourself becoming lighter, your bones weighing less.”

I close my eyes.

“This really is like yoga,” I say.

“You’ve got to empty yourself out, let go of all the things that mentally weigh you down.”

I try to clear my mind. Instead I see Christian’s face. Not from the vision, surrounded by fire and smoke, but a breath away like when he leaned over me on the ski slope. His dark, thick eyelashes. His eyes with their spatters of gold. Full of warmth. The way the corners crinkle when he smiles.

My wings don’t feel as heavy then.

“That’s good, Clara,” says Mom. “Now try to lift off.”

“How?”

“Flap your wings.”

I imagine my wings catching the air the way hers did that time at Buzzards Roost. I think about shooting up into the sky like a rocket, streaking past clouds, brushing the treetops. It’d be wonderful, wouldn’t it, to soar like that? To answer the call of the sky?

Nothing so much as twitches.

“It might help if you open your eyes now,” Mom says with a laugh.

I open my eyes. Flap, I order my wings silently.

“I can’t,” I pant after a minute. I’m sweating, in spite of the chilly air.

“You’re overthinking it. Remember, your wings are like your arms. You don’t have to think at your arms to move them, you just move them.”

I glare at her. My teeth clench in frustration. Then my wings slowly flex back and forth.

“That’s it,” says Mom. “You’re doing it!”

Only I’m not doing it. My feet are still firmly planted on the ground. My wings are moving, fanning the air, blowing my hair all over my face, but I’m not lifting off.

“I’m too heavy.”

“You need to make yourself light.”

“I know!”

I try to think of Christian again, his eyes, his smile, anything tangible, but suddenly I can only picture him from the vision now, standing with his back to me. The fire coming.

What if I can’t do this? I think. What if the whole thing depends on my ability to fly? What if he dies?

“Come on!” I scream, straining with everything I have. “Fly!”

I bend my knees, jump, and make it a few feet off the ground. For all of five seconds I think I might have done it. Then I come down hard, at an angle, twisting my ankle. Off balance, I crash onto the lawn, a tangle of limbs and wings.

For a minute I lie there in the soggy grass, gasping for breath.

“Clara,” says Mom.

“Don’t.”

“Are you hurt?”

Yes, I’m hurt. I will my wings to vanish.

“Keep trying. You’ll get it,” Mom says.

“No, I won’t. Not today.” I get to my feet carefully and brush dirt and grass off my pants, refusing to meet her eyes.

“You’re used to everything coming easy for you. You’re going to have to work at this.”

I wish she’d stop saying that. Every time, her face gets this look like I’ve let her down, like she expected more. It makes me feel like a big fat failure, both as a human, where I’m supposed to be remarkable—beautiful, fast, strong, sure on my feet, able to do anything that’s asked of me—and as an angel. As a regular girl, I’m not proving to be anything magnificent. And as an angel, I am simply abysmal.

“Clara.” Mom moves toward me, opening her arms like we’re going to hug now and everything will be okay. “You have to try again. You can do this.”

“Stop being so soccer mom about it, okay? Just leave me alone.”

“Honey—”

“Leave me alone!” I screech. I look into her startled eyes.

“All right,” she says. She turns and walks swiftly back toward the house. The door slams. I hear Jeffrey’s voice in the kitchen, and her voice, low and patient, answering him. I rub my burning eyes. I want to run away but there’s nowhere to go. So I stand there, my neck and shoulders and ankle aching, feeling sorry for myself until the yard is dark and there’s nothing left to do but limp inside.

Chapter 11

Idaho Falls

Angela shows up at our house a whole hour early on Saturday morning, and the minute I see her standing on the porch I know this girls-day-out idea is a big mistake. She looks like a kid on Christmas morning. She’s totally freaked-excited to meet my mom.

“Just play it cool, all right?” I tell her before I let her come in. “Remember what we talked about. Casual. No angel talk.”

“Fine.”

“I mean it. No angel-related questions at all.”

“You told me like a hundred times already.”

“Ask her about Pearl Harbor or something. She’d probably like that.”

Angela rolls her eyes.

She doesn’t seem to grasp the fact that our friendship largely depends on how clueless she appears to my mom. That if Mom knew what Angela and I’ve been talking about all these afternoons after school, the angel research and questions and Angela’s wacky theories, I’d probably never be allowed to go to the Pink Garter again.

“Maybe it’d be best if you don’t talk at all,” I say. She puts her hand on her hip and glares at me. “Okay, okay. Come with me.”

In the kitchen Mom is setting a huge plate of pancakes on the table. She smiles.

“Hello, Angela.”

“Hi, Mrs. Gardner,” Angela says in this completely reverential tone.

“Call me Maggie,” Mom says. “It’s good to finally meet you face-to-face.”

“Clara’s told me so much about you I feel like I already know you.”

“All good, I hope.”

I glance at Mom. We’ve hardly said three sentences to each other since the botched flying lesson. She smiles without showing her teeth, her company smile. “Clara hasn’t really told me that much about you,” she says.

“Oh,” says Angela, “well there’s not that much to tell.”

“Okay, so pancakes,” I say. “I bet Angela’s starved.”

Mom turns to get a plate out of the cupboard, and I shoot Angela a warning look.

“What?” she whispers.

She’s completely starstruck by my mom. She stares at her all through breakfast. Which would have been okay—weird, but okay—except that after about two bites into pancakes she blurts out, “How high can an angel-blood fly? Do you think we could fly in space?”

Mom just laughs and says that sounds cool but she’s pretty sure we still need oxygen. “No Superman trips to the moon,” she says.

They smile at each other, which bugs me. If I asked that question, Mom would say she didn’t know, or it wasn’t important, or she’d change the subject. I know what she’s doing: She’s trying to figure Angela out. She wants to know what Angela knows. Which I definitely do not want to happen.

But there’s no stopping Angela. “What about the light thing?” she asks.

“The light thing?”

“You know, when the angels shine with the heavenly light? What’s that about?”

“We call that glory,” Mom answers.

“So what’s the point of it?” Angela asks.

Mom sets down her glass of milk and acts like this is a deep question that requires some serious thought. “It has many uses,” she says finally.

“I’ll bet the light comes in handy,” says Angela. “Like your own personal flashlight. And it makes you look angelic, of course. No one would doubt you if you show the wings and the glory. But you’re not supposed to do that, right?”

“We’re never to reveal ourselves,” Mom says, looking at me for an instant, “although there are exceptions. Glory has a strange effect on humans.”

“Like what?”

“It terrifies them.”

I sit up a little. I didn’t know that, and neither did Angela.

“Oh, I see,” says Angela, really cooking with gas now. “But what is glory? It has to be more than just light, to have that kind of effect, right?”

Mom clears her throat. She’s in uncomfortable territory now, stuff she’s never told me.

“You’re always saying how much easier flying would be if I could tap into glory,” I pipe up, not about to let her off the hook. “You make it sound like an energy source.”

She gives a barely perceivable sigh. “It’s how we connect with God.”

Angela and I mull that over.

“Like how?” asks Angela. “Like when people pray?”

“When you’re in glory, you’re connected with everything. You can feel the trees breathing. You could count the feathers on a bird’s wing. You know if it’s going to rain. You’re part of it, that force which binds all life.”

“Will you teach us how to do it?” asks Angela. This whole conversation is clearly blowing her mind. She’s itching to whip out her notebook and take some major notes.

“It can’t be taught. You have to learn to still yourself, to strip away everything but the core of what makes you, you. It’s not your thoughts or your feelings. It’s the self under all of that.”

“Okay, so that sounds hard.”

“I was forty before I was able to do it well,” Mom says. “Some angel-bloods never get to that state at all. Although it can be triggered by powerful events or feelings.”

“Like Clara’s hair thing, right? You told her that gets triggered by emotions,” Angela says.

Mom gets up from the table and crosses to the window.

“Oh. My. God. Shut up,” I whisper to Angela.

“There’s a blue truck in the driveway,” Mom says after a moment. “Wendy’s here.”

I abandon Mom and Angela and run to meet Wendy, who, unbeknownst to her, will save me from this angel conversation.

Tucker drove her over. He’s leaning against Bluebell in the driveway, staring out at the woods, and somehow it feels like he shouldn’t be allowed to be here, shouldn’t be allowed to peer into my woods or listen to my stream or enjoy my birds singing.

“Hey, Carrots,” he says when he spots me. I look around for Wendy, who I find rummaging around in the truck for something. “Beautiful day for shopping,” he adds.

He’s mocking me, I think. I don’t have a comeback.

“Yep,” I say.

Wendy slams the door of the truck and steps up onto the porch right as Angela exits the house. “Hey, Angela,” she says brightly. She’s apparently determined to be friendly with this other best friend of mine. “How’s it going?”

“Great,” says Angela.

“I’m so excited to go to Idaho Falls. I haven’t been there in forever.”

“Me neither.”

Tucker’s not leaving. He’s looking at my woods again. Against my better judgment, I step down off the porch and walk over to him.

“Shopping for prom dresses, huh?” he asks as I come up beside him.

“Um, kind of. Wendy needs shoes. Angela’s after accessories, since her mom’s making her dress. And I’m along for the ride, I guess.”

“You’re not going to prom?”

“No.” I glance away uncomfortably, back toward the house, where suddenly Wendy seems very into her awkward conversation with Angela.

“Why not?”

I give him a “why do you think?” glare.

“No one’s asked you?” He looks at me.

I shake my head. “Shocking, right?”

“Yeah, actually, it is.”

He rubs the back of his neck, then gazes at the woods. He clears his throat. For a second I get the crazy idea that he might be about to ask me to prom, and my heart does all kinds of stupid erratic leaps in my chest from sheer terror at the idea. Because I’d have to reject him right in front of Wendy and Angela, who are acting like they’re talking but I can tell they’re paying attention, and then he’d be humiliated. I have no real desire to see Tucker humiliated.

“Go stag,” he says instead. “That’s what I would do.”

I almost laugh with relief. “I guess.”

He turns and calls to Wendy. “I gotta take off. Come here a sec.”

“Clara’s going to take me home, so I won’t be needing your services anymore today, Jeeves,” says Wendy like he’s her chauffeur. He nods and takes her arm and draws her over to the side of the truck where he speaks in a low voice.

“I don’t know what prom shoes cost, but this might help,” he says.

“Tucker Avery,” Wendy says. “You know I can’t take that.”

“I don’t know anything.”

She snorts. “You’re sweet. But that’s rodeo money. I can’t take it.”

“I’ll get more.”

He must keep holding the money out to her, because then she says no more emphatically.

“Okay, fine,” he grumbles. He gives her a quick hug and gets in his truck, pulls around the circle, and stops, then rolls down the window to lean out.

“Have fun in Idaho. Don’t provoke any potato farmers,” he says.

“Right. Because that would be bad.”

“Oh, and, Carrots . . .”

“Yes?”

“If you end up going to prom, save me a dance, okay?”

Before I have time to process this request, he drives away.

“Men,” Angela says from beside me.

“I thought that was nice,” says Wendy.

I sigh, flustered. “Let’s just go.”

Suddenly Wendy gasps. She pulls a fifty-dollar bill out of her sweatshirt pocket.

“That little stink,” she says, smiling.

The second I lay eyes on the dress, I’m in love with it. If I were going to prom, this would be it. The one. Sometimes you just know with dresses. They call to you. This one’s Greek inspired, strapless with an empire waist and a swath of fabric that comes up the front and over one shoulder. It’s a deep blue, a little brighter than navy.

“Okay,” says Angela after I’ve been staring at it on the rack for five minutes. “You have to try it on.”

“What? No. I’m not going to prom.”

“Who cares? Hey, Maggie, Wendy!” Angela calls across the department store to Wendy, who’s in the shoe department with my mom looking through the clearance heels. “Come see this dress for Clara.”

They drop everything and come to see the dress. And gasp when they see it. And insist I try it on.

“But I’m not going to prom,” I protest from the dressing room as I pull my shirt over my head.

“You don’t need a date,” says Angela from the other side of the door. “You could go stag, you know.”

“Right. Stag to prom. So I can stand around and watch everybody else dance. Sounds fantastic.”

“Well, we know one person who will dance with you,” says Wendy faintly.

“He did just break up with his girlfriend, you know,” Mom says.

“Tucker?” Wendy asks, confused.

“Christian,” Mom answers.

My heart misses a beat, and when Wendy and Angela don’t respond, I open the dressing room door and stick my head out. “How’d you hear about Christian breaking up with Kay?”

She and Angela exchange a look. I only left them alone together for like five minutes this morning and Angela had obviously already presented her “Christian and Clara are soul mates” hypothesis. I wonder what Mom thinks of that.

“If I were Christian you wouldn’t catch me anywhere near the dance,” says Wendy. “It’d be like a snake pit for him.”

That’s true. This last week at school Christian seemed off—nothing too noticeable, but I watch him a lot, so I noticed. He didn’t crack any of his usual jokes in Brit History. He didn’t take notes during class. And then he was absent two days in a row, which never happens. Late, yes, but Christian’s never absent. I guess he must be pretty upset about Kay.

I slip the dress over my head. It fits. Like it was made for me. So unfair.

“Come on, let’s see it,” orders Angela. I go out and stand in front of the big mirror.

“I wish my hair wasn’t orange,” I say, brushing an unruly strand out of my face.

“You should buy it,” says Angela.

“But I’m not going to prom,” I repeat.

“You should go to prom just so you can wear that dress,” says Wendy.

“Totally,” agrees Angela.

“You are so beautiful,” Mom says, and then to my total shock she digs around in her purse for a tissue and blots at her eyes. Then she says, “I’m buying it. If you don’t go to prom this year, you can wear it next year. It really is perfect, Clara. It makes your eyes this stunning cornflower blue.”

There’s no reasoning with them. So fifteen minutes later we’re walking out of the department store with the dress hanging over my arm. That’s when we split up, divide and conquer, Mom calls it. Angela and I check out the bling stores, and Mom and Wendy head toward shoes, since there’s nothing on heaven and earth my mother loves so much as new shoes. We agree to meet back at the mall entrance in an hour.

I’m in a weird mood. I find it ironic that Angela and Wendy are both going to prom and the only thing we’ve bought so far on this trip is a dress for me. And I’m not going. I’m also irritated because I can’t wear real earrings because piercing my ears doesn’t work—they heal too fast. I don’t like any of the non-pierced earrings I see. I want something dangly and dramatic for this dance I’m not going to.

I’m feeling queasy and light-headed all of a sudden, so Angela and I stop at Pretzel Time and each get a cinnamon pretzel, hoping some food in my stomach will help. The mall’s crowded and there’s nowhere to sit, so we lean against the wall and eat our pretzels, watching the people stream in and out of Barnes & Noble.

“Are you mad at me?” Angela asks.

“What? No.”

“You haven’t said two words to me since breakfast.”

“Well, you weren’t supposed to talk angel stuff, remember? You promised.”

“Sorry,” she says.

“Just tone it down a notch or four with my mom, okay? What with the staring and the questions and everything.”

“Am I staring?” She blushes.

“You look like a Kewpie doll.”

“Sorry,” she says again. “She’s the only Dimidius I’ve ever met. I want to know what she’s like.”

“I told you. She’s like one part hip thirty-something, one part tranquil angelic being, and one part crotchety old lady.”

“I don’t see the old lady part.”

“Trust me, it’s there. And you’re like one part crazy teenager, one part angelic being, and one part private detective.”

She smiles. “I’ll try to behave.”

That’s when I see him. A man, watching me from the doorway of the GNC. He’s tall, with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. He’s wearing faded jeans and a brown suede coat that hangs off his body loosely. Out of all the people passing by in that swarming mall, I might not have noticed him except for how intensely he’s staring at us.

“Angela,” I say weakly, my pretzel dropping to the floor. A wave of terrible sadness crashes over me. I have to fight not to double over with the sudden intensity of the emotion. My hands clench into fists, my nails biting painfully into my palms. I start to cry.

“Whoa, what’s the matter, C?” says Angela. “I swear, I’ll behave.”

I try to answer. I try to press through the sorrow to form the words. Tears pour down my face.

“That man,” I whisper.

She follows my gaze. Then she sucks in a jagged breath and looks away.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s find your mom.”

She puts her arm around my shoulder and steers me quickly down the hall. We bump into people, push our way through families and groups of teenagers. She looks back again.

“Is he following us?” I can’t manage anything louder than a whisper. I feel like I’m struggling to keep my head up in a pool of dark, icy water, chilled to the bone, wearier with every step I take, and it’s too much. I want to sink down and let this blackness take me.

“I don’t see him,” says Angela.

Then, like an answered prayer, we find my mom. She and Wendy are coming out of Payless, both carrying shopping bags.

“Hey, you two,” Mom says. Then she notices our faces. “What happened?”

“Can we talk to you for a minute?” Angela grabs Mom’s arm and pulls her away from Wendy, who looks confused and somewhat offended as we walk away. “There’s a man,” she whispers. “He was staring at us, and Clara just . . . she just . . .”

“He’s so sad,” I manage.

“Where?” Mom demands.

“Behind us,” says Angela. “I lost track of him, but he’s definitely back there somewhere.”

Mom zips her hoodie and pulls the hood up to cover her head. She walks back to Wendy and tries to smile.

“Everything okay?” asks Wendy.

“Clara’s feeling sick,” Mom says. “We should go.”

It’s not a lie. I’m hardly able to put one foot in front of the other as we make our way quickly toward the department store.

“Don’t look back,” Mom whispers close to my ear. “Walk, Clara. Move your feet.”

We hurry through the cosmetics department and the lingerie, past the formal wear section where we started out the day. Within moments we’re in the parking lot. When she sees our car, Mom breaks into a full run, towing me after her.

“What’s going on?” asks Wendy as we run.

“Get in the car,” Mom orders, and we all scramble in.

We gun it out of the parking lot. It’s not until we’re a few miles away from Idaho Falls that the sadness starts to dissipate, like a curtain lifting. I take a deep shuddering breath.

“Are you okay?” asks Wendy, still looking wildly confused.

“I just need to get home.”

“She has medicine at home,” chimes in Angela. “It’s a med-ical condition she has.”

“A medical condition?” repeats Wendy. “What kind of medical condition?”

“Uh—”

Mom shoots Angela an exasperated look.

“It’s a rare form of anemia,” Angela continues smoothly. “Sometimes it makes her feel sick and wobbly.”

Wendy nods like she understands. “Like that day when she passed out at school.”

“Exactly. She needs to take her pills.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” says Wendy. She glances at Angela and then back at me, as if she’s really saying, “How come you told Angela about this and didn’t tell me?” She looks hurt.

“It’s not usually a big deal,” I say. “I’m feeling much better now.”

Angela and I share a glance. Especially given the way my mom reacted, we both know that it’s a very, very big deal.

When we pull up to the house three hours later, after first dropping Wendy at the Lazy Dog, Mom says to us, “All right. Go up to your room. Wait for me there. I’ll be a little while.”

Angela and I go into the house. It’s not dark yet but I have the urge to turn on all the lights as we retreat to my room. We sit down together on my bed.

We hear Mom knock on Jeffrey’s door.

“Hey,” she says when he answers. “I thought I’d drop you off at a movie in Jackson, since I’ve spoiled your sister all day. It’s only fair.”

After they’re gone, Angela puts her arms around me and pulls my quilt around us both, because I can’t stop shivering. And we wait. Mom’s car crackles up the driveway about an hour later. The door slams. We listen to the careful creak of her feet on the stairs. Then she knocks, very lightly.

“Come in,” I croak.

She smiles when she sees us huddled together.

“You shouldn’t have taken Jeffrey away,” I say. “What if that guy’s out there?”

“I don’t want you two to be scared, okay?” she says. “We’re safe here.”

“Who was he?” Angela asks.

Mom sighs, a resigned, tired exhalation. “He was a Black Wing. Chances are he was only passing through.”

“A fallen angel hanging out in the mall in Idaho Falls?” says Angela.

“When I saw him, I . . .” I start to choke up, remembering.

“You felt his sorrow.”

“His sorrow?” repeats Angela.

“Angels don’t have the kind of free will that you or I do. When they go against their design, it causes them an enormous amount of physical and psychological pain. All Black Wings feel this.”

“Why didn’t you or Angela feel it?” I ask.

“Some of us are more sensitive than others to their presence,” she says. “It’s actually an advantage. You can feel them coming.”

“And what should we do, if we see them?”

“You do what we did today. You run.”

“We can’t fight them?” asks Angela, her voice higher-pitched than normal. Mom shakes her head. “Not even you?”

“No. Angels are almost infinitely powerful. The best you can do is escape. If you’re lucky—and today we were lucky—the angel won’t consider you worth his time.”

We’re all quiet for a minute.

“The surest defense is to stay undetected,” Mom says.

“So why didn’t you want me to know about them?” I can’t keep the accusation out of my voice. “Why don’t you want Jeffrey to know?”

“Because your consciousness draws them, Clara. If you’re aware of their existence, you’re more likely to be discovered.”

She looks steadily at Angela, who meets her gaze for a few seconds before she turns away, her fingers tightening on the edge of my quilt. Angela was the one who told me about the Black Wings.

“I’m sorry,” whispers Angela.

“It’s all right,” says Mom. “You didn’t know.”

Later I crawl into bed with Mom. I want to feel safe next to her radiating heat, but she’s cold. Her face is pale and pinched, like she’s worn out trying to be the brave and knowing one, trying to protect us. Her feet are like blocks of ice. I put my feet against them, hoping to warm her.

“Mom,” I say into the dark. “I was thinking.”

“Uh-oh.”

“In my vision, when I suddenly feel so sad, is that a Black Wing?”

Silence. Then another sigh.

“When you talked about the sorrow you felt, the way you described it, it seemed like a possibility.” Mom grabs my waist and pulls me closer. “Don’t worry, Clara. You won’t help it by worrying. You don’t know your purpose yet. You’re still working with a few very small pieces. I don’t want to fill your head with preconceptions before you see everything for yourself.”

Another shiver passes through me.