When awareness settled and stayed, I found myself wrapped inside my sleeping bag, wearing clean clothes and listening to a piano in one ear. My SED lay just outside my bedding, the wire of one earpiece twisting its way to me. The second earpiece played music at nothing.
“It’s crooked.” My voice rasped as though I’d been screaming. Maybe it was just waking-up raspiness. “The music. It’s crooked.”
A quiet din I hadn’t been aware of until now suddenly stopped, and someone gave a long, relieved sigh. Sam. “You did that. You said one earpiece was for you, one was for us, and when I suggested using the SED speakers for everyone, you said you didn’t have time to argue.”
“Oh.” That did sound like me, but I didn’t remember the discussion. I pulled the earpiece out, silencing the piano sonata, and pushed myself onto my elbow. My whole body was stiff and aching.
Whit and Stef were sitting on their sleeping bags, paused from tapping at their SEDs while they looked at me. A pot of soup sat near the open tent flap, steaming with a sylph coiled around it. Slanted light fell through the opening, making the gloom of the rest of the tent darker and deeper.
“Look who’s finally awake,” Whit said. “When I said you should get some rest, I didn’t mean this much.”
I made a face that might have been a smile.
Sam sat just beyond my SED, in the dark, so close I hadn’t yet focused my eyes the right way to see him. But now I noted the folded paper in his hands, the slumped posture, the way he’d been right beside me when I awakened.
I sat up the rest of the way, ignoring the twinges of pain in my back and shoulders. “Sam.” His name came out in a breath, sorrow and hope and longing all tangled up in three letters.
“Hey.” His voice was soft, rough, and for a moment we looked at each other and there was nothing else in the world.
Light rippled in the corner of my eye as the others got up and left the tent. Even the sylph vanished, leaving Sam and me alone.
He swallowed hard and leaned toward me. “Ana, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”
I rubbed sleep from my eyes and shimmied out of my sleeping bag. “Maybe start by telling me how long I was”—not unconscious, even if that was the truth—“asleep.”
“Three days.”
Three days. Time we didn’t have to waste.
I pushed hair off my face, shifting questions in my mind. Who’d washed and dressed me? Were we still at the same camp? I couldn’t tell without peeking outside, and the light hurt my eyes. “Have the dragons returned?”
What had they said? The one with the song? The phoenix song.
Sam shuddered. “No. They haven’t come back.”
“Okay.” I didn’t know where to go from there. I’d done the impossible. I’d spoken with dragons. I’d survived. I’d kept the dragons from attacking my friends because I was a very frightening tiny person with little regard for her own life.
A high, hysterical giggle slipped out. My voice sounded thin and weak in the shadows of the tent, but I couldn’t stop it. After everything, I could do nothing but laugh to release the knot of tension in my chest.
Sam just watched me until the fit wore off. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes.” My stomach felt hollow as I sat back, shoving hair away from my face again. I had vague memories of sipping thin broth, but before that, there’d just been the pigeon the sylph had cooked for me, and hours and hours of being awake and walking through the woods. “Oh yes.”
He nodded and hurried to the pot of soup. “We haven’t moved camp. We didn’t want to disturb you.” He returned and handed me a bowl with mostly broth, but a few chunks of some unfortunate forest creature, as well as what passed for vegetables when trapped in a winter forest.
I thanked him and sipped slowly, letting my stomach get used to the sensation of food again. It was bland, but filling, and too soon the bowl was empty. I set it aside; I’d get more, once I was confident I’d be able to hold this much.
“So, the note you left.” He turned over the folded paper in his hands, and when he angled his head, I could see the worry line carved between his eyes, and the shadows beneath. Stubble darkened his chin and cheeks. “I read it.”
Frantically, I tried to remember what I’d said. It seemed I’d written that note a hundred years ago. So much had happened since.
“Is that how you feel? Selfish to have asked us to come? Like we don’t believe in you?”
I should never have written that note.
“My feelings for you haven’t changed. Did you think they had?” He stretched his hands toward me, but stopped halfway, as though he wasn’t sure whether we were allowed to touch anymore. “Ana?”
No. Yes. “What did you expect me to think?”
He pressed his hands to his knees, and his gaze followed. “Ana,” he said again, like a prayer. “Just because you want friends with you doesn’t make you selfish. It makes you human. And even when we think something’s an unwise idea, that doesn’t mean we’ve stopped believing in you. I will never stop believing in you. What I said about believing you can do anything, be anything—I still think that. I still admire that you don’t let others’ limitations stop you. I love that about you. I love you.”
Tears blurred my vision, catching on my lashes when I tried to blink them away.
Sam pushed himself forward, cupping my cheeks in his hands. Gently, he swept away my tears with his thumbs, and the way he looked at me was so sad and hopeful and intense, my heart ached with the desire just to be close to him. His voice was husky when he spoke again. “I’m sorry that I made you feel like you needed to go the rest of the way alone.”
All I could feel were his hands on my face, strong and warm and calloused from music.
Before Sam, I’d feared touch. My mother had only hit me, but Sam had shown me affection and comfort and pleasure. I wanted him to touch me. I’d grown to crave it, the way he held my hand or tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. The way he’d made me feel safe and connected, simply because he was close to me.
And these last weeks without—they’d felt like being locked away by myself. Alone.
“I was already alone, Sam.”
He dropped his hands to his lap.
“Not physically. But for weeks everything inside of me was slowly unraveling, and not all of it was because of where we were going, what we’ve learned, and who we’ve lost. Some of me was unraveling because of you. Even though you were angry with me, and hurting just as much, I still wanted you.”
His throat worked as he seemed to realize how far we’d pulled away from each other, and how we’d both been doing the pulling. “I wanted you, too.” He drew a shuddering breath. “But every time I looked at you, I thought about what I did. What we all did. I thought about how it might have been your life exchanged for mine, and I couldn’t bear it.”
It almost had been my life.
“Is there a way to fix this?” he asked.
I lifted my eyes to his, meeting darkness and anguish. “Do you love me?”
He spoke without hesitation, without the usual line of thought between his eyes. “Infinitely.”
“Then we can fix this.”
“That’s good.” He closed his eyes, letting out a long breath. “That’s really good.”
I wanted to move closer to him, or for him to move closer to me, but it all seemed like moving too fast. I didn’t want to risk breaking this tenuous truce. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
The one with the song.
He caught the shift in my tone, that we weren’t talking about our relationship now, but something far bigger.
Though our relationship felt very big to me.
“The dragons.” I hated talking to him about dragons. “I spoke to them.”