“Heath?” she asked.
“Still breathing. Sparrow got the bleeding to slow, and he’s bandaged up now.”
“I’m so sorry, Lock. I’m so damn—”
“It was an accident, not your fault. Now get out of the trap.”
“I would if I could.”
He smiled then. An actual smile. “Well, isn’t this something.” He stared down at her, hands on his hips. “This from the girl who made fun of me last week when I got stuck up a tree.”
“I told you those branches were going to snap. You brought that upon yourself.”
“And you didn’t with this—jumping into a trap without running a vine in first?”
She scowled. “Are you going to help me out or not?”
He disappeared, and came back with a fallen tree limb, which he extended into the pit.
“Thanks,” she mumbled after he heaved her out.
Lock plucked a piece of bark from Bree’s hair and tossed it aside. “Don’t mention it.”
Bree pulled the rest of the boughs off the trap. She cleared away the packed moss and earth that made it so deceiving, lugged aside the stitched branch-work so no one else would mistake their footing. Lock watched her, silent. When she straightened, he looked sad again.
“Are you sure Heath’s okay?” she asked.
“For now. Hey, Bree? I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier.”
“I’m sorry about the trap, the spike, everything.”
“You already apologized. Are you listening? I’m sorry. Heath’s healing and it’s over and done, and I shouldn’t have sent you off. Heath would have wanted you there. I wanted you there.”
He looked wounded, and it broke Bree’s heart. She threw her arms around his middle and pressed her cheek to his chest. He returned the hug, and when they stepped apart, Bree thought he might be looking at her differently.
“Do you still need help patching the roof?” she asked.
“Always knew I could count on you.”
And then he ruffled her hair, gave her a teasing shove. Like she was a sibling. Like the little sister he couldn’t live without.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Bree thought, and followed him back into town.
They finished the patch job with only a fraction of summer light remaining, but stayed on the roof far longer.
Chelsea had brought them fish from the town center, and they’d eaten while working. Now, with the heat of the day finally fading, they were too exhausted to move. Lying side by side on the roof, they watched the stars emerge between the breaks in the trees. The sky was midnight blue.
“Are you worried?” she asked Lock.
“About?”
“You know what.”
He bit his bottom lip as though it were edible, like breaking the skin might make words come more easily.
“How come you don’t talk to the stars anymore, Bree?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.”
Bree scowled at the pinpricks of light overhead. That’s all they were—light. Her ma had once said that her father was up there. That anyone you lost was. That to be near them again, to speak to them, all you had to do was talk to the stars. But Bree had screamed at them after her mother’s passing—she’d yelled for her to come back, to not leave her alone, to show that she loved her by returning—and it hadn’t done a damn thing. That’s how Chelsea had found Bree the night she offered the girl a new home: Heath was bundled in the woman’s arms, Lock at her side wearing a too-big sweater and even larger eyes, and Bree had been hollering at the stars. But Bree’s mother hadn’t listened, so she’d reluctantly gone with Chelsea, wondering if perhaps she’d been too harsh on her mother.
Bree whispered after that, spoke softly, politely. But by the time she’d turned twelve it was obvious her mother—if she could even hear the pleas—didn’t care. Bree never spoke to the sky again.
“Stars are stars, not people,” she said to Lock.
“But we bury our dead in the ground, and they become dirt, which springs new grass, which feeds animals, that end up in the ground in turn. And if we burn the deceased, they become air and ash. If we send them to sea, they dissolve in salt. It’s like we’re all one and the same—like there’s a bit of us in everything. Why not the stars, too?”
Bree frowned. “For the same reason I destroyed that trap today: Some things are real, and some are in our minds. Sometimes we make ourselves believe because we are desperate. Or weak.”
“I don’t think you’re weak,” he said.
She angled her head toward him. She couldn’t tell if he was being honest or just trying to make her feel better.
“Are you worried?” Bree repeated.
“What’s to worry about? I know what will happen. As surely as each wave will break.”
“And you’re not scared?”
“No.”
Liar.
But she never said it out loud. Maybe she was the one who was scared. To lose him. To say good-bye. To face her own birthday and all the unknowns attached to it.
FOUR
WHEN SHE WOKE, LOCK’S BED was already empty. Heath was in his, though, and he didn’t look well. Not even in sleep.
There was a sheen of sweat on the boy’s brow, and his breathing seemed labored. Bree glanced at his leg. The bandage was heavy with a discerning amount of liquid—tinged pink and mucus yellow. Pus. Blood was one thing, but pus . . . Bree was no healer, but she knew it wasn’t good.
“Heath?” she whispered, touching his wrist. His skin was clammy and cold.
In the front of the hut, Chelsea sat at the table, weaving.
“Is Lock fishing already?” Bree asked. The woman nodded, her eyes barely leaving the half-finished basket. “Heath’s bandages . . . They’re dirty. They need to be changed.” Another nod. “Is Sparrow coming soon? It doesn’t look right, and his fever’s climbing.”
“I didn’t realize you were a healer, Bree.” There was no smile, no hint of a joke. “Please go worry about what you’re good at—fish, food. I’ve already talked to Sparrow. She’ll stop by later.”
Bree frowned, but picked up her spear. Halfway to the shore, she turned around. Lock hadn’t blamed her for the accident, but she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if Heath fell to the fever. Sparrow could only do so much for the boy. Most of it was already done. But Lock . . . he’d been sick once. Deathly sick. On the bridge between realms, Sparrow had called it. Desperation led Chelsea to allow Mad Mia a chance. And it had made all the difference.
Maybe it would again.
A failing driftwood fence surrounded Mad Mia’s ramshackle hut. Every few paces a post was erected, bone wind chimes hanging from them. They clinked in the morning’s tired breeze. Within the fence a small garden of wildflowers was wilting, and the charred fish that had been cooking over her fire yesterday was now gone. Likely stolen by some scavenging animal during the night, or perhaps burned right off the stakes in Mad Mia’s negligence. The woman’s door was propped open, but a dense curtain of vines hung in the frame.
Bree slipped inside the fence.
“You’re not going to find any fish in that hut,” a voice said.
Bree turned to see Maggie eying her. Ness stood nearby, a load of laundry braced against her hip.
“Who said I’m after fish?” Bree retorted.
“Leave her at it,” Ness said to Maggie. “It’s her own hide if Keeva catches her ditching work.”
The vines of Mad Mia’s house were drawn aside. “Is sleep precious to no one?” the woman asked, a glare directed at the three girls.