LV

A MIRAGE, A FEVER

When he returned to the palace in the depths of the night, the king called first for Governor-Advisor. “Is it finished?” he asked, although he knew it wasn’t. How could it be? He still heard the girl’s voice.

Governor-Advisor, rubbing a crust of sleep from his mouth, promised soon. “She does not eat, and they both grow weak. Either the wolf will fill his belly, or hunger will take her.”

Governor-Advisor returned to his room. The no-longer-a-boy-boy-king paced his.

… the little house, the lantern light,

the garden by the door,

the warmth around the hearth at night…

Would the singing not stop? He clutched his temples and blocked his ears and rocked back and forth.

Finally, he could bear it no more. He crept down the dark halls until he came to the girl’s chamber. The voice inside rose and fell and rose and fell—nectar-sweet humming, honey-bright birdsong. It scratched at him. “Oh, stop,” he said to the wood. It was hollowing him out. “Won’t you stop?” he pleaded.

If the voice would not stop, he would stop it himself. Yes, he decided. He’d do it himself.

Taking the keys from the wall, he unlocked the door.

There, on the floor, was the shadow of the girl, cradling the shadow of the wolf.

Why can’t I have that? He had never thought to ask this question, yet it burned through him. He felt it blazing in every bone, every vein, every corpuscle—he was this question. So inflamed was he, he could scarcely see. The darkness of the cell was smeary, sooty, greasy. His eyes were smeary, sooty, greasy—his vision hot and impossible. He seemed not to be seeing things as they were.

The dark form the girl was holding—it was not the form of a wolf.

Not possible. Not possible.

He rubbed his eyes.

A mirage, he told himself. A fever.

It seemed the girl was holding the hand of a boy, the two both deep asleep, all bones and faint breathing, but it must be his eyes, overfatigued. He rubbed his lids, trying to clear the wavery mirage, trying to see what he knew to be there.

He stepped into the cell. Yes, there was the wolf. He sighed. He’d spotted its fur curled in the corner. It was moving, just slightly, the softest of stirrings.

Heart thudding, he leaned closer. Was it asleep? Was it dying?

He held his breath. He bent over it.

The fur shuddered. It quivered. It seemed alive—and yet, it was not. No wolf form filled it. It was—he picked it up—just a puddle of pelt… and a few insects clinging to it, scraping away the decay.

Nothing more.

Pelt trembling in his hand, he turned. He stared at the girl. She had not been eaten. She had not been ended.

He would have to do it himself.

LVI

HOW CURIOUS: A WAY IN

The footsteps woke her. When Rae opened her eyes, a shadow stood over her. The wolf, she thought.