Yet they are different. Attaby is harmless, and Maekallus has human origins. A partial soul. This gobler . . . she is a monster, through and through.
It doesn’t matter. I can’t curse her with such a fate, and so I pretend not to hear. “Then you will go into the monster realm and never return. Under any circumstance. You will die before you step foot here again. You will die before you reveal what has transpired here. You will forget ever coming here after you have brought something of Grapf’s to this tree.”
The gobler’s eyes glaze over.
I glance to Maekallus. He nods. Thorough enough.
I squeeze the stone. “Go.”
She departs. I don’t move—don’t breathe—until her footsteps merge with the dying song of the forest. I don’t relax until the Will Stone returns to its cool state, whispering of Maekallus and nothing else.
Fatigue pricks me like angry hornets. I falter. Maekallus lunges forward and grabs my arm in a painful grasp to keep me upright. I force my legs to steady, to stay on my own feet. I will not lean on him. I can’t.
“My father is unwell.” My breath is too heavy, but I find my balance, and Maekallus releases me. “I need to go home.”
“Can you?”
I laugh. It soothes that soulless hole inside me ever so slightly. “I’ll manage.”
“I can hide myself from mortals.”
“And they’ll only see a woman floating through the wildwood.” I glance at him, but he is serious, and it dampens my mirth. I pick up my basket, trying not to stagger. Maekallus drops my dagger inside. “You are healed, and the gobler will return.” Please, please let her be successful. If the spell wears off, or she is killed, I do not know how I’ll ever free Maekallus and break the bond between us. We will perish together. “You can watch this place, and the stone will warn me when she returns.” I cross the small glade and carefully step over tree roots. “I will come back sooner if it’s more than a few days.”
I slip and fall hard on my backside. I wince, and in the split second I close my eyes, I feel I could sleep forever.
Maekallus walks over, hands on his hips.
I sigh. “If you would be so kind.”
He bestows upon me a wry grin that I want to slap off his face. He is the reason my body is a century old beneath the skin. Why I am only a piece of what I once was. But no, that isn’t fair. I am the one who summoned him. The gobler—Grapf—is the one who bound him here.
Maekallus picks me up. Yes—he is warmer than he once was. Warm enough to be human. I rest my cheek against his bare shoulder. So tired, yet sleep doesn’t come, even when he traipses across level ground.
“You’ll need to show me where you live,” he says after so long.
I open my eyes. “I suppose I must. But mark my words, Maekallus. One snide remark, one wrong move, and you’ll be flying back to your glade so fast the falcons will squirm with jealousy.”
Maekallus takes me nearly to the edge of the wildwood, setting me down when my home becomes visible, barely, through the trees. He watches me go—I feel his eyes—but when I turn back, he’s nowhere to be seen.
I slip into the house, trying to shake my weariness. My heart nearly stops when I check on my father.
For a moment, I’m sure he is dead.
But his chest moves, and I rush to his side, energy restored. “Papa?” I ask, feeling his forehead. Still no fever, but his skin is clammy and gray. He looks twenty years older. I hurry to get him a glass of water and help him drink it. I’ve never seen such a sickness before. Grasping the Will Stone, I picture the town doctor in my mind and plead for him to come. It will be faster than seeking him out myself. And while I don’t wish to force others to my bidding, I will not be refused in this.
I make tea and start stew, hoping to give my father something heartier than broth. I slice mushrooms thin and add them to the pot of water simmering over the fire. To my relief, only an hour passes before the physician arrives at my door.
He looks confused. “I don’t recall making an appointment with you, but—”
“Here, quickly.” I grab his arm and hurry him to Papa’s bedside. I chew on my thumbnail as the doctor inspects him. Papa responds to his questions, though more with sounds than words. I clutch the Will Stone and pray. Find what is wrong with him, please. Let him live. Live, Papa.
Don’t leave me alone.
The doctor frowns once he’s done with his assessment. “It could be a number of things. Gray fever, though you’ve said he hasn’t been feverish.”
“Correct.” My voice is small like a mouse’s. Even as I say the words, doubt creeps up my neck. Was he feverish while I was away?
“It could be failure of the heart or kidneys,” he suggests. My legs weaken, and I lean against the wall to stay upright. “Could be an ailment of the stomach.”
“He’s eaten nothing sour, and he hasn’t thrown up.” Has he? Could I have missed those symptoms, too?
The doctor stands. “Keep an eye on him, look for any changing or new symptoms. Lots of water and rest. Send me word.”
I offer him payment. I don’t see him to the door. Instead, I kneel at my father’s bedside, stroking his hair back from his face. Trying to be strong, like my mother was. A few tears blur my vision.
“You’ll be all right. Just rest.” I can’t believe it’s a failure of his organs; Papa is so healthy. Gray fever? Perhaps, but I know little of the disease.
I devote myself to his care, body and fractured soul, even read to him while he slumbers, pausing every other page to watch his chest rise and fall. Night comes. I make up a pallet at my father’s bedside and lie down, my weary limbs heavy.
I don’t sleep.
I think it is fear for my father, so I lie there, listening to him breathe. There’s only a light rasp to the sound, and it’s even. Peaceful. I’m so tired. I close my eyes and wait for sleep to come, but it remains elusive. Hour after hour passes, and my body is so fatigued I could cry for lack of rest. It isn’t until the blue light of predawn that I realize the insomnia might be my body’s objection to what I’ve done to my dwindling soul. Yet would my own body truly torment me so?
Papa stirs as dawn breaks. I force myself out of bed, will myself to be alert. To my relief, the stone lends me its strength. I make porridge and tea, trying a different blend of herbs. My father is only partially lucid. I help him sit upright and feed him, but he only takes a few bites of breakfast, followed by a few sips of water.
“You need to eat if you’re going to regain your strength,” I chide him. He doesn’t respond. I run my knuckles over his growing beard. “Papa?”
He sighs.
I help him back into his bed. Clean the kitchen. I should check on the mushrooms, but . . . I’m so weary. The thought of climbing up and down the ladder exhausts me. The little farm will be fine for one more day.
Near noon, my father begins to cough. I hurry to his side. He coughs harder without breath, until his skin’s gray cast borders on blue. I lean him forward and beat my hand against his back. Mucous flies from his lips and onto the blanket. He gasps for air, then settles back down.