“Finnuala O’Dálaigh-Sé,” spoke the woman, her voice like fire kindling. “After all these years. Come in, child.”
My foot trembled on the doorstep, but I took a long breath and stepped into the Pegwitch’s house. The sounds grew louder the moment the door closed. It sounded like … the willow glades. Birds chirping, squirrels chattering, deer running, fish jumping. It even smelled like the willow glades—fresh water, crisp air, willow leaves in the wind. But it was dark. I could not see a single thing other than the Pegwitch’s bushy hair guiding me along a crooked hallway. There was a click, a crack, a creak … and then light.
A doorway to what appeared to be a sort of nature sanctuary appeared, a forest within four walls. As I walked inside, tall grass brushed my ankles and a butterfly flitted across my vision. Trees grew tall in the corners and a stream bubbled down the center of the room, a little wooden bridge arched across it. Animals of all sorts hopped and skipped and flapped by—a bunny to the left, a fox to the right, a sparrow up above.
“This is the rehabilitation center for wounded creatures,” said the woman. There was a calmness to her voice, despite its crackle, that relaxed every muscle in my body. “You do know who you are, don’t you, Finn?”
I wasn’t quite sure what the Pegwitch meant, so I shook my head no, and she whispered, “The fourth and final Child of Lir.”
“It’s true?” Whatever doubt I had felt about the story melted away at just a glance to the Pegwitch’s eyes. Perhaps it was a spell, but there was an intense honesty about the wrinkles around her eyes.
The Pegwitch winked, then said, “Only if you believe it to be. Stories depend on belief, you know.”
“Oh,” I said. “Who are you?”
“I am Margaret Jean Kincaid, but you may call me Peg. Shall we sit?” She gestured to a pair of boulders, and she and I sat on the false-sun-warmed rocks.
“Margaret …” I whispered, my hand leaping to my locket.
Peg’s face creased into a smile. “Nuala gave you her locket, did she now?”
My voice wavered when I spoke: “How d’you know Nuala?”
“Ah, we were best friends, Nuala and I. Best friends.”
“You mean … you’re the girl in the locket? But … Nuala said you were dead.”
Peg nodded in that deep way that I knew so well from Nuala. “The hurricane changed everything.”
“The hurricane? What hurricane?” I knew I was in for a story, and my bones tingled with the excitement of it.
“We were sixteen, all four of us—Nuala, Ed, Oliver, and me. It started with a squabble between Nuala and Ed and spiraled into a hurricane. Well, when the wind picked up and the rain swept in, Nuala told me and Ed to go fetch our treasures from the hawthorn sprout. That’s where we used to hang out, and we’d collect little things from around town—guitar strings, old coins, lost earrings. Small pieces of people. She said she was going to find Oliver, who had run off earlier that day. So, off we went, Ed and me, and what a mistake that was. I saw Nuala just before it happened—she stood at the foot of the hill, and then started running toward us. The wind picked up, and we were not strong enough. It blew us right off the edge of the cliff. We fell, but listen now, we survived. Oh yes, something saved us—something strange, miraculous, odd, otherworldly—an angel, a faery. Something magical. We ended up in the ravine below and took two days climbing our way out. Nuala and everyone believed us dead, and it only took those two days of guilt she felt to send her flying back to Ireland. I never saw her again, but her children, I knew of. She married Oliver, see, and they had two daughters, fair as could be, named Aobh and Aoife. Oh yes. Aoife is Nuala’s daughter. Now, I only knew this because I got newsletters from Nuala’s little town in Ireland. I tried to send letters to her, but they seemed to get caught in the wind. Well, soon enough, we grew old. Oliver died. Ed died. But me? I’m still here.”
“But you don’t look like her …” I opened up my locket and scooted closer to Peg. Her eyes narrowed as she examined the photograph inside, then said, “That’s not me, child. That’s your half sister and brothers.”
“My what?”
“Went missing just this morning. I’ve been looking for them.”
“They’re real … they’re real. And so … so I’m real. I’m the Child in the story.” A smile tugged at the edges of my mouth and joy bubbled up in me like Coca-Cola. I felt like a butterfly when it first emerges from its cocoon, the first time it realizes it has wings.
“Indeed you are,” said Peg. “And I can prove it. That hawthorn tree in your locket’s photograph? It was just a sprout when Nuala and I were young. There, it’s full grown. Fiachra, Conn, and Ena came to visit it the summer before you were born. I glimpsed them but once, just as they were leaving. That was twelve years ago now. That was the year before … before, well, this happened.” She gestured to the swans. “But I keep them safe here—at least I did. Aoife captured them not long ago. I would’ve kept you safe too, but Aoife seems to have gotten a tight grasp on you just under my nose.”
“You’ve got that right,” I muttered, and then I smiled down at the swans—my twin brothers. I wondered if they could understand my words.
“When Conn showed up with Darcy on his back, I knew he had made a mistake—she looked nothing like your mother or your father,” explained Peg. “But her lungs were badly injured from her near drowning, completely unconscious. She was dying. I knew Aoife would be her only hope; Aoife has a sort of magic touch when it comes to healing people, similar to how I have a certain gift for healing animals. So, I surrendered Darcy to Aoife and told her that Darcy was you—Finn—so she wouldn’t hurt her. But then the real you showed up, and all that changed.”
“I’ve got to get Ena to you. She broke her wing—you’ll help her, won’t you?”
“I will do my best.”
“And Aoife … we have to stop her before she hurts Darcy—or locks her away forever. We have to stop her from killing the swans, and we have to stop her from separating everyone from their loved ones just because she resents being separated from me. And … and I don’t love her. I don’t feel like her daughter, and I don’t want to live with her forever. We’ve got to do this. You heard she’s having a gala for me? You’ll come to it, right?”
“I don’t know about that. Your mother isn’t too fond of me, I’m afraid to say.”
“You must come. Please. Aoife has Fiachra and Conn. She must have captured them while they were out writing me their note and fixing my locket. Aoife’s got them with Darcy, and Aoife’s gonna make Darcy sew a dress out of their feathers for me. That’s why she’s actually throwing the gala, in celebration of capturing them.”
Peg shook her head. “She’s quite something, ain’t she, Finn?”
“Quite.”
“Yes, Finn. We’ll stop her. I promise that. In the meantime … keep them safe. All three of them—Fiachra, Conn, and little Darcy. Bring me Ena, and I’ll take her in.”
I nodded. “I’ll have my friend Sojourn bring her over. He’s been looking after Ena. I’ve got to get back to Aoife before she realizes I’ve snuck out.”
Peg nodded and took my hand. Hers was warm, soft, and wrinkled; it reminded me of Nuala’s. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you at last, Finn.”
I left after that, trundling back to the manor with a heart that felt as if it had grown wings—tiny ones, perhaps—but wings all the same, beating softly against my rib cage, thra-thump, thra-thump, thra-thump …
Chapter 38
WHEN I RETURNED, I slipped through the chimney, giving Darcy a sloppy kiss on the cheek, then took a quick shower to clean off the soot. When I came out of my room, I found the mansion to be in chaos. Maids and butlers swarmed the place like bumblebees. They dragged white chairs and tables in and out of the dining hall, brought in marble swan statues and actual stuffed swans, golden chandeliers and diamond-encrusted candlesticks. I stopped one maid in her tracks and said, “Excuse me—er—what is happening?”
�
�Haven’t you heard?” said the maid. “The gala’s being pushed up to tonight. I s’pose we’ll just have to manage our winter wonderland despite the leaves just turning.”
“What? Why?”
“You’d have to ask your mother that, miss.” The maid bustled off, and then I gasped as someone grabbed me from behind. “Darling!”
Aoife.
“I got your lemon drops just like you asked. Wouldn’t believe how difficult they are to find in this little town,” she said, dropping a bag of yellow candies into my palms.
“Why is the gala being moved to tonight? Won’t people’ve already made plans?”
“I have a feeling they’ll find time enough, my sweet.” Her words were like candied apples, poisoned too. “You’ll have a marvelous time. We all will,” and she embraced me in another hug, then bubbled, “Well, I better be off to the seamstress. Can’t have you walking through the doors in these rags.”
And Aoife swished off to the foyer. My heart trembled against my ribs. I had to get Darcy, Fiachra, and Conn away from Aoife now. Surely, though, Aoife was heading for the attic too. After her clicking went out of earshot, I spun on my heel and hurried for the stairwell.
I scurried up to Posy-Kate’s room and banged on her door. She opened it and scanned me up and down. “You look awful.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Look, your ma’s gonna go make Darcy skin the swans for my dress, but the thing is, these swans … they’re my siblings. They’re Fiachra and Conn. You’ve got to distract her for me while I get Darcy and the swans.”
“But …” Posy-Kate tugged at her sleeve. “I just don’t know if I can. That’s my mom. She’s all I’ve ever had. I know it’s easy for you, but I can’t just betray her like this.”
I lowered my head. I couldn’t imagine ever betraying Nuala or Da no matter how wrong they were. “I understand.”
“I just—I know that what she’s doing is terrible, but I just can’t comprehend that she is the one doing these terrible things.”
Posy-Kate heaved a deep sigh and got to her feet, then stumbled out of her room. I gasped as she clutched the doorframe and then I pulled her up by her armpits. “Your ankle—you can’t walk.”
“It’s fine,” she said. “I’ve got to be brave. I know this is right.” And then she screamed loud as a banshee’s shriek, “MOM! MY ANKLE IS BROKEN. COME FIX IT!” Posy-Kate gave me a smirk and a shrug of her shoulder.
“That should do it, then,” I breathed. “Thanks,” and I turned on my heel for the attic.
Posy-Kate’s cry must have worked, because when I arrived in the vine-twisted attic, I found Darcy and the swans perfectly intact. I clutched my heart the way Nuala used to when I would come home from sneaking out to go climb cliffs on my own.
“Oh, thank goodness, she didn’t make you start,” I breathed, hurrying over to Darcy. Her eyes were swollen and red, and her lips dry. “We’ve got to get you out of here,” I said, and I turned to the swans’ cage, where the two white birds cowered together, necks scrunched to fit the cage.
“I’ve got the key,” said Darcy, and she fumbled through a box under the record player and pulled out a rusted silver key. She skittered over to the swans’ cage and chinked the key into the lock, then pulled the door open.
The swans instantly hobbled out, ruffling their feathers.
“Do you think you can carry one?” I asked Darcy.
She nodded, and groaned as she heaved up Fiachra. I did the same with Conn, and we made for the chimney. “Sorry, guys,” I muttered as the swans’ wings met the thorns, and we began to climb. It was rather more difficult to keep balance on the vines while holding a ginormous swan. The swans squawked and screeched with every brush against a thorn, and blood dripped over my fingers, down my arm. I bit my lip with the swans’ pain, but continued to climb until at last that wonderful moonlight blushed into view. I heaved Conn over the edge first and pulled myself up after. Then I leaned over the chimney and grabbed Darcy’s hand and yanked her and Fiachra up to the manor roof.
“Where do we go now?” huffed Darcy.
Butterflies fluttered in my chest as if tickling the strings of a harp. “Sojourn,” I said. “We go get Sojourn, then we go to Margaret.”
Chapter 39
WE FOUND SOJOURN in his abandoned mill, leaning against a stack of hay and feeding Ena a couple blackberries out of his palm. He jumped a bit when we burst open the door, but Ena hardly flinched.
“What’re you guys doing here?” said Sojourn, eyebrows cinched.
“C’mon,” I said. “We’ve got to go to the Pegwitch to save the swans.”
“The Pegwitch?” spluttered Sojourn, dropping his handful of berries. “But—but—”
“Her name is actually Margaret, and she was Nuala’s friend. We can trust her. She’s been helping Fiachra and Conn for years apparently. Don’t you trust me?”
“Well, you did almost get us killed with that truck—”
“Sojourn.”
“Whatever, yes,” muttered Sojourn, getting to his feet.
“And bring Ena,” I said. “Peg might be able to help her wing.”
Sojourn nodded and scooped up Ena, then followed Darcy and me out the mill door. We scurried down the hill, past the hawthorn, and up the Pegwitch’s winding road. All the while, the sky drifted down, down, down, until a thick layer of fog covered everything down to my ankles. When we reached the oak door, I barely had to tap the door for Peg to swish it open and usher the three of us in.
“There’s a storm brewing out there, oh yes, m’dears, I can feel it in my toes,” said Peg, the crackle of toe knuckles sounding from Peg’s socks-inside-sandals feet. Her dark curly hair was frizzed around her face and her wrinkles more pronounced. She swept through the crooked hallways, patchwork coat fluttering behind her, until she reached the glass door bursting with light. “I see you’ve found Fiachra and Conn, thank goodness, and dear Ena too,” she added, pushing open the door. “And Darcy, sweet Darcy, you haven’t a clue of my relief. Come in, come in,” and she patted them all inside and sat upon the rock, then beckoned for Sojourn to hand her Ena.
Sojourn eyed Peg skeptically, but with a small grunt, handed over the swan.
“Mmm,” muttered Peg as she examined Ena’s wing.
Ena squawked as Peg ran her fingers along the gash on her wing. The muddy brown of the half-healed scar made my stomach flop as Peg peeled back the stuck-together feathers. Her touch, however, was so gentle that Ena winced not once as she examined her. When at last Peg looked up, her eyes were grave. “She will never fly again.”
My heart dropped into my stomach.
“But she could walk,” piped up Peg.
“Walk?” I said. “But—but she’s a swan—she has to fly.” There was simply something wrong about having wings but not being able to use them.
But Peg’s eyes simply sparkled. “She could walk as human again.”
I stumbled back into Sojourn and began to stutter, “What—you mean—you mean—the curse—but how?”
“You know how it goes. If she who caused the curse eats the berry from the same hawthorn tree that turned the Children into swans, the curse will be done. The swans will be free.”
“So Aoife has to eat a berry from the hawthorn on Inis Eala?”
“Unless I am mistaken, yes,” said Peg.
“So how do we get a berry before the gala? It’s practically impossible,” said Darcy.
Peg’s dark eye twinkled and she repeated, “Practically.”
Something tickled my foot, and I was suddenly aware of the tiny piece of metal strapped around my ankle: Darcy’s shoe-buckle wing. And then I thought of what Nuala would say, and it probably would be something like, Miracles are made of wings you forgot were on your back. But the funny thing was, my miracle didn’t seem so big anymore. It wasn’t a huge mountain to climb. I still wasn’t complete without my family. I would never be until we were reunited in full. But I had my friends. I had Darcy and Posy-Kate, and even spider-legged
Sojourn. And I had the swans. I loved them. I remembered the deep emptiness, the loneliness I had felt under the hawthorn at Inis Eala. That tree stuck in my mind, branches like Nuala’s wrinkles, like Peg’s, like the ones on my palms that would spread with more stories. I was going to make more stories.
I turned to Sojourn and started, “We’ve got to get to the—”
“So, it’s you.” The voice slipped through the air like skates on ice.
I spun around to face Aoife towering in the doorframe. Her lip curled as she sneered, “Those swans will be slaughtered, naked, before all my people. You” —she turned to me, forced smile cracking her lips— “will wear their coats.”
“No,” I screamed, my voice breaking as I lunged in front of Ena.
“You’re not taking the swans anywhere,” said Sojourn, clenching his fists.
Aoife trilled with laughter. “Watch me.” She took three click-clacking, swan-bill-heeled steps forward and bent down before me so I could smell the hunger on her breath.
“Come, Finbird. Or watch your little friends die.”
I felt my blood drain from my head down to my toes with the intense fear of unknowing just how far this woman would go to get what she wanted.
Aoife stood and yanked Darcy and me by the wrists. “It is time for the gala. And you two—Margaret and my hunter boy—don’t you think for one minute you will not soon come to face your punishment.”
And so Aoife swept Darcy and me outside, fingers like thorns digging into Darcy’s scalp, forcing me to follow suit.
Chapter 40
THE FOG HAD BEEN REPLACED with a bitter chill. The grass snapped with frost as Darcy, Aoife, and I scurried up the hill to the manor. Aoife held Ena by the wing as she screeched in pain. Aoife had told Peg that a servant would return for the other two swans, and if she tried to hide them, Ena would die immediately. The light from the lanterns around the manor glinted off the windows, and a path of white feathers had been laid on the ground.
“No need to worry, dear,” said Aoife, turning to me. “Everyone is here to celebrate you, to welcome you officially to Starlight Valley. Don’t be glum, Finbird. Let me see you smile.”
The Serendipity of Flightless Things Page 16
