I turn my face to the wall, close my eyes. “I think she should rest,” Raoul says. “We can talk later.” Maia and Cass stand up. Raoul touches my shoulder, leans forward to kiss my hair. “Don’t forget,” he murmurs, too low for Cass and Maia to hear. “You are still loved. You are anchored here by love.” I cover his hand with mine and sink back into sleep.
In my dream the three of us are sitting at the edge of the black river. Aurora is skipping stones. Jack has his guitar, strums quietly. The bone trees clack behind us. The dog howls. We’re alone. No Minos, no old gods, no bloody-limbed girls. “I don’t see how you can like it here,” I say to Aurora. Her short hair suits her. She looks different, fiercer, somehow more herself.
“It’s what you make of it.” She reaches forward to touch the water. I cry out in protest, but she ignores me and drifts her fingers in the oily slick. As I watch, the darkness leaches out of it, dissipating like droplets of ink in a glass of water, until the river runs clear. I can see the pebbles in the riverbed. Tiny silver fish dart through the current. A frog regards me solemnly from the muddy bank before hopping into the water with a miniature splash. My nostrils fill with the rich scent of pine, the clean smell of warm earth, of high lonely places. Mountain smell. A marmot whistles. The sun is warm on my cheek. I raise my head. The black sky has gone blue; a lazy cloud drifts across it. The bone trees are sheathed in shaggy bark, branches sprouting green needles as I watch. Pine and hemlock, Doug fir. We’re at the top of a pass. Around us, green hills rise to snowy ridges. I can see all the way to the edge of the world. The river burbles merrily on its long road to the sea, all its menace gone.
“You’ll go back,” she says. “You’ll go back and you’ll be so brilliant. You’ll do all the things we said we would do. You’ll be a famous painter. You’ll travel. You’ll see the whole world.”
“I don’t want any of that without you.”
“You have to let us go.”
I take her hand, match my twinned scar to hers. Palm to palm. She smiles at me.
“I don’t know who I am without you, Aurora.”
“You’ll learn.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You stubborn thing.” She laces her fingers with mine and pulls me in. I hold her tight, so tight her breath catches. The smell of her skin, the flutter of her pulse against my cheek. “You were so brave,” she says into my ear. “But I can’t stay with you. You know that.”
It takes all the strength I have to release her, but I do. I let go of her hand last. Jack quits his playing, sets the guitar aside, stretches. He kisses my cheek, and I lean against him for a moment. He stands, helps Aurora to her feet, picks up his guitar. She’s wearing the same shirt she had on in the hospital. White silk against dark skin.
“I love you,” I tell her, tell both of them. “I love you.” I take off Cass’s amulet and offer it to her. She closes my fingers around it, shakes her head.
“Stay frosty, babycakes. I love you, too.” She touches my forehead, takes her hand away, looks at Jack. Walks away from me along the riverbank. After a pause, he follows.
“Aurora,” I say. A jay calls behind me. The wind rustles through the trees. I know better than to expect either of them to turn around, but I can’t help hoping all the same.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am deeply grateful to: My parents, for teaching me to trust my own voice; Justin Messina, peerless helper; Cristina Moracho, tireless draft-reader, jarmate, and boon companion; Emiko Goka-Dubose, for keeping me honest; Neesha Meminger, fellow revolutionary; Bryan Reedy, for bringing me here; Clyde Petersen, Carol Guess, Gigi Grinstand, Matt Runkle, Emily Barrows, and Meg Clark, support system extraordinaire; Cara Hoffman, Alexander Chee, and Madeline Miller, for kind words; Hal Sedgwick, whose generosity sustained me; Elizabeth Hand, whose work continues to transform me; Michele Rubin and Brianne Johnson, the best agents in the history of the universe; Sara Goodman, for giving this story wings; Melanie Sanders, miracle among copyeditors; and last but not least, the Author-friends, especially Nathan Bransford, Tahereh Mafi, and Bryan Russell. Beloved cheerleaders, all of you.
This book would not have been possible without a fellowship from the MacDowell Colony.
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All Our Pretty Songs aops-1 Page 19
