chapter twenty-two

Once I finish practice for the night, Raze and Olani head off in the opposite direction of the warning sign to look for somewhere they can refill our dwindling water supplies, leaving me and Isolde alone for the first time in what feels like forever. She sits thoughtfully on the Destiny’s steps, knees curled up to her chin, and I crawl below to refuel its magic.

I unlatch the box carefully, letting my fingertips linger over its lovingly detailed brass. There isn’t an inch of the wagon, even down here where no one can see, where effort was spared. I can’t wait to show it to my father one day.

The thought surprises me, even though it’s not the first time I’ve had it. Papa loves beautiful, well-made things—the more practical, the better. He could wax poetic about a perfectly made bowl for hours. But I stopped daydreaming about what it would be like to be reunited over a year ago, because it felt too distant and it hurt too much.

“I’m excited,” I blurt, voice muffled by the wagon’s underside. “I... I still hate all of this. But it’s starting to feel real. Like we can really do this.”

Isolde lets out a short, surprised laugh. “Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?”

“I’m serious!” I laugh back. “I forgot what it’s like to feel good about the future. But, Sol, if we do this—and I know that’s a big if—it’s not just going to be a daydream. It’s going to be real. I can’t wait to show Papa the Destiny. We’ll have to find a house with a stable or something where we can keep it, and hopefully it won’t get too mad at us for not living in it full-time, but he’ll be so excited. He’ll want to take the whole thing apart and figure out how it works, but also be too scared to mess with any of the detail. We can take it out for trips.” I pause, realizing how long that string of words was, and that I somehow got through all of it without her interrupting.

Isolde still doesn’t respond. A nightingale, late for the season, sings in the silence.

“Won’t that be perfect?” I add, trying to mask the uncertainty creeping over my face. Not that she can see more than my boots, anyway, with the rest of me tucked in the dark space beneath the wagon.

“He’ll love it,” she says, finally.

I crawl out from under the Destiny, my fingertips still tingling from the refueling. At the pace we’ve been guzzling magic, it’s become part of my routine every other night, but no matter how much magic I pour into the mechanism, there’s still more waiting. One side of Isolde’s face is sharply lit by the dying fire, leaving the other in stark black shadow.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, propping myself up on the ground. “I’m excited. You should be excited that I’m excited.”