Come with me, suggested Rawhead. We’ll go be birds together.
It sounded good to Sal.
They died again, on the porch. Rawhead knew the way. The dead heart, which had beaten so faithfully for so long, shuddered into stillness.
Madeline found the body the next day, and she knew enough about witches to cry over it. But Sal and Rawhead were long gone.
There’s people who say that witches don’t go to heaven. That sort of person acts like they’re in charge of who goes in and out, though, and I don’t know if God holds with that sort of thing. Maybe Sal did, maybe she didn’t. It’s not for me to say.
But me, I like to think that they found themselves curled up warm in an egg together, to sleep and dream of flying.
About the Author
Ursula Vernon is the author of the Hugo-award winning comic Digger, as well as multiple children’s book series. She writes for adults under the name T. Kingfisher. Her work has won the Nebula, Mythopoeic, Coyotl, and WSFA Awards. She lives in North Carolina. You can find more of her short stories and novels at Tkingfisher.com.
Copyright
Published in Apex Magazine Jan 25, 2016 (Issue 80)
© Ursula Vernon