A Turn of Light (13 page)

Mist was normal for a late summer morning, especially here, where it could hide from the sun between the old trees. Wisp always blew it from her path.

Why hadn’t he?

She pressed one hand over the little box in her pocket. He knew about the wishing and wanted nothing to do with it, or her. He didn’t want her in the meadow . . .

“Nonsense,” Jenn said aloud. Wisp slept. He’d told her so. She was too early for him this morning, that was all. “So I’ll be there first, for once.” She’d never seen him arrive. Not that she saw him, but would there be something different about the meadow before Wisp was in it?

Curiosity made it easier to walk forward.

Two steps into the mist, and only the packed dirt beneath her feet told her she walked on the road. That, and a perceptible darkness looming to either side. Old trees lined the Tinkers Road, the kind the villagers wouldn’t touch with an ax. In the mist, they leaned toward her.

Jenn closed her eyes and kept walking. If there was a way she knew as well as her own home, it was the way to her meadow. She imagined the sun burning away the mist and drying her skirt, imagined the full-throated songs of small brown birds and the drone of the first morning’s bees. There’d be rabbits in the meadow this early, she told herself. Rabbits with whiskers bejeweled with dewdrops.

She quite liked rabbits.

So she wasn’t surprised to hear a chirp followed by a serenade, nor to feel warmth on her face. She opened her eyes to find the mist gone as if it had never been, and herself almost to the opening that led to the deserted farm. Her shortcut to Night’s Edge.

And Wisp.

The triumphant laugh bubbling in her chest stayed there. She should practice what to say, Jenn decided solemnly as she went past the empty house and barn, following the line of trees. Where they met the hedgerow was an opening, widened over the years of her using it. She gently stroked aside the cobweb that curtained it before stepping through.

The path from here led beneath the old trees, alongside the field. The grain stalks were shoulder high, nodding their heavy ripe heads. The livestock relished the dried stalks over any other foodstuff, thriving on that diet through the long winter; the grain became flour for the villagers. The villagers called it flax, when it needed a name, but it wasn’t the plant she’d seen drawn in books. Something else to discover outside Marrowdell.

With Wisp.

Her breath caught in her throat. To travel the wide world in the company of her dearest friend. To find her heart’s need and be happy together. What could be better than that?

As if in agreement, birdsong filled the fragrant air. She’d reached the meadow. Rabbits regarded her peacefully, clover stems sticking past their furry lips as they chewed, the flowers at the tips wiggling up and down. Bees hovered by her ears and pushed their way inside still-sleepy daisies.

If they came from Kydd’s hives, they’d spent the night inside books. Just as well they couldn’t read.

They couldn’t, could they?

Stems bent here and there, though the air didn’t move. “Wisp?” she called.

In answer, a big-eyed mouse peered at her before climbing a stem that gave under its weight.

Without Wisp, Night’s Edge was simply another meadow.

But this was not simply another morning. She’d arrived first. She had time. Relief trembled Jenn’s hands as she pulled the little box from her pocket and held it in both hands. What to say . . .

“My Dear Wisp.” Too formal. Like her aunt’s invitations in Avyo.

She wrinkled her nose like a rabbit’s and thought hard. “Wisp, I’ve a new game. It’s called being a man.” Bah. She was almost nineteen, not ten. A grown woman.

What would a woman say?

“Wisp.” Jenn closed her eyes and whispered in a low, husky voice, “Be part of my life always. Come with me wherever I go.” Because that was what she wanted most. To see the wide world together. To have her friend with her all the time, her family happy and safe. To find what was missing from her life and be content at last.

Everything would be perfect.

She heard leaves stir and opened her eyes. The asters and daisies nearest the old trees bowed toward her. Then the ones closer to her. And closer.

“Wisp!”

The familiar breeze tugged her braid and caressed her cheek. “Dearest Heart. You’re back. I’m so glad.”

The breeze slipped along her arms to her hands, folded over the box. “What’s this? Did you bring me a surprise?”

She’d promised to ask. Jenn braced herself. “If you could, would you be with me, Wisp? Always?”

“Always. Always. Always.” The breeze began to whirl playfully around her. “What’s inside? Thistle?”

It wasn’t quite a yes.

Or was it?

If it wasn’t, she had no hope of leaving, no way to fill the emptiness consuming her, no future.

It had to be yes.

Jenn tore the lid from the box, cried, “‘Hearts of my Ancestors, grant my heart’s need!’” and tossed the ash into the air.

What had glistened silver by moonlight was black by day. The ash caught in Wisp’s whirl like thistledown, spiraling up and around. All at once, it came free and poured to the ground in front of her.

No. Not the ground.

The ash fell to outline a shape, strange and bent.

“What is this?!” wailed Wisp. The shape moved as if struggling. On every side, wind ripped the heads from flowers, tossed dirt into the air, but the black stayed where it was—and then, began to squeeze inward.

“What have you donnnnnee?!” A howl.

“Wisp!” Horrified, Jenn dropped the letterbox and leapt toward him. She’d sweep away the ash. She’d stop this.” I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

Flash! CLAP!

As Jenn flinched, the black collapsed on itself and was gone.

The echoes of thunder rolled into the Bone Hills and across the fields. Behind them, the air fell silent.

Until even the birds hushed.

“Wisp?”

Where he’d been was a smoking ruin of burnt stems and scorched earth. Flower petals drifted down like cinders.

Jenn took a step and stopped. “Wisp? Don’t hide on me. Please. I said I was sorry.”

Nothing.

“Wisp. Please? Come . . .” No use. He was gone. She knew it.

From her feet outward, fall spread through the meadow. Stems drooped, flowers dried without seed. The bees fled and the birds flew up and away.

Jenn fell to her knees and brought her fists to her mouth. Had she driven her best friend from her too?

Or done far worse?

Jenn Nalynn forded the river without noticing it. Climbed Marrowdell’s gate and ran through the commons without seeing how the calves cowered from her or the sows snorted in alarm. No one called to her as she rushed through the village. People saw her face and fell silent.

She’d called Wisp’s name till she was hoarse. The only breeze had smelled of ash and dust and hadn’t answered.

It wasn’t her meadow anymore. Not without Wisp. She couldn’t do anything there. She couldn’t be there.

She wasn’t welcome.

So Jenn ran, her still-wet skirt slapping her shins, bare feet pounding the dirt, and tried to think. Maybe, just maybe, Wainn knew another part of the book, a part that would tell her how to undo the wishing.

Or another wishing, a better one. One that turned back time, changed decisions, mended shattered trust . . .

She’d do anything to save Wisp.

Steps from her rose-covered home, all the maybes and hopes failed her. Jenn stumbled onto the porch. The house toad leapt from Aunt Sybb’s luggage, landing with an offended grunt, and squeezed itself under the rocking chair.

Jenn half-fell into the parlor, catching herself with a hand on the cold metal of the stove. She wasn’t surprised to find her father there, instead of at the mill where he should have been, nor her aunt or sister, whose expressions went from hope to shock at the sight of her.

But why was Kydd Uhthoff at the table with them?

“Jenn.” The tall slender man stood at once, giving that gracious half bow so natural to him and his family. “Please. Take your seat.”

“Kydd brought back the plate,” Peggs said too quickly, rising as well.

“The cookies were delicious,” he stated warmly. “Our thanks again. You’re sure my nephew was no bother.”

“No bother. Wainn’s always welcome.”

“Peggs makes wonderful pie,” Aunt Sybb volunteered.

“I’d be happy to—”

Their babble made no sense. Mute, Jenn looked to her father, who came to her without hesitation, taking her in his arms as though she was fragile. He spoke over her head, quick and firm. “Peggs. More tea. Kydd . . .”

“I’ll take my leave, Radd. Ladies.” At the door, the beekeeper turned. “Unless—” his voice took an unfamiliar edge, “—there’s something wrong.”

Wrong? Jenn looked at him, seeing concern in his face, and something else. Suspicion. Of what? He couldn’t possibly know. She trembled. Of course he could. Wainn, ever the innocent, might have told his uncle everything that went with the pie and cookies. Kydd would know how she’d used his nephew, how she’d learned about his secret library in the hives, which Aunt Sybb thought he’d got rid of and clearly hadn’t, which meant it wasn’t proper to own and surely not meant to share, and about the wishing . . .

He couldn’t know about Wisp.

He mustn’t.

At the same time, his dark eyes searched hers and found some answer that turned them cold. For the first time in her life, Jenn realized Kydd Uhthoff was dangerous. “Who was it, Jenn?” he snapped. “Who upset you?” Then, making even less sense, “We heard thunder.”

“No one.” Had they feared she’d be caught in a storm? So this wasn’t about Wisp or wishing. Her confused relief must have been plain, for Kydd relaxed. She might never have glimpsed another side to him, except for the oddest feeling she’d just protected someone. “I don’t feel well,” she added faintly, and buried her face against her father’s vest.

He laid a comforting hand on the back of her head. “Good thing you came home, Sweetling. We’ll take care of her, Kydd. Thank you.” With weight to the courtesy, as if the two shared an understanding.

“Good day, then.” When the footsteps on the porch ended, her father spoke quickly, “Sybbie—”

“Bring her here.”

Jenn found herself on the settee with Aunt Sybb, despite her dirty feet and wet clothes. For some reason, the older woman felt it necessary to take her hands and rub them between hers. She didn’t protest. Nothing seemed to matter.

Peggs knelt, holding out a steaming cup. Her eyes searched Jenn’s, asked a question.

Jenn shook her head, very slightly.

“He said no?” Her sister frowned. “What—”

Tears welled in Jenn’s eyes. “I—the wishing—he’s gone!”

“Who said no?” Radd’s forehead creased.

Peggs gasped, “You killed him?!”

And Aunt Sybb asked with great concern, “The toad?”

Great steaming mugs of tea. Warm flaky biscuits dripping with butter. Slices of pale cheese, fragrant apple, and sweet ham. Peggs could produce a feast from thin air.

All wasted. The others had eaten earlier; Jenn doubted she’d ever want to eat again. The tea went down well, though. She wrapped chilled hands around her mug and nodded gratefully as Peggs offered more.

Her sister sat. Her father and aunt, seated, waited. It wasn’t patience, Jenn thought miserably, so much as determination. None of them would leave her be without an explanation. They’d regard her with kind anxious eyes until she spoke or fell asleep on the settee. She supposed they’d keep watch while she slept, so as not to miss her waking again.

There was no escaping the truth. Jenn stared into her tea. “I tried the wishing,” she said finally. “The one from the book.”

“We both did,” Peggs said at once, at her defense as always.

Not this time. Jenn shook her head. “It was my decision. I used the ashes.” She paused to firm her voice. “I spoke the words.”

“What ashes? What words?” Their poor father looked from one to the other of his daughters, perplexed. She couldn’t blame him. “Why?”

“Jenn tried to turn a toad into a husband.” She cringed. Despite Aunt Sybb’s matter-of-fact tone, it sounded pure nonsense. “I wish you wouldn’t carry on so, child,” her aunt pleaded. “There are more toads.”