BooksBarbecue
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Chapters (81)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. Dedication Page
  4. CONTENTS
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. 74
  79. 75
  80. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  81. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I WAKE up trembling in the dark in that quiet time before sunrise. This dream was so vivid that it’s as if I was physically there. It takes a few minutes before my heart rate slows back to normal and my adrenaline dissipates.

I shift so my sword’s cross-guard isn’t poking into my ribs under the blanket. I lie listening to the wind, wondering where Raffe is now.

14

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SHE HASN’T eaten in three days.

My sister has drunk some water but that’s about all she’s managed to hold down. Mom and I coaxed her into swallowing a couple of spoonfuls of venison stew but she gagged that right up. We’ve tried everything from broth to vegetables. She can’t hold any of it down.

Mom is deeply worried. So much so that she’s hardly left Paige’s side since we found her in the basement lab of the aerie. Paige’s skin is corpse white. It’s as if all her blood drained through the red-stained holes of the uneven stitches.

“Look at her eyes,” says my mother, as though she understands that Paige’s otherness dominates when I look at her now.

But I can’t. I keep staring at her stitches while I offer her some cornbread. The cut on her cheek is crooked, as if the surgeon couldn’t be bothered to pay attention.

“Look at her eyes,” Mom says again.

I force myself to raise my eyes. My sister does me the favor of looking away.

It is not the eye motion of a beast. That would be too easy. It is the downcast look of a second grader who is all too familiar with rejection. That’s the look she used to get when other kids pointed at her as she wheeled by in her wheelchair.

I could kick myself. I force myself to look at her but she won’t meet my eyes. “Do you want some cornbread? I got it fresh from the oven.”

She gives the slightest shake of her head. There’s nothing sullen about it, just sadness, as if she’s wondering if I’m mad at her or think bad thoughts about her. Somewhere behind her stitches and bruises, I glimpse the lost lonely soul of my sister.

“She’s starving,” says Mom. Her shoulders are slumped, her posture dejected. My mother is not exactly a glass-half-full kind of person. But I haven’t seen her feeling this hopeless since Paige’s accident when she lost the use of her legs.

“Do you think you can eat some raw meat?” I hate asking this. I’ve gotten so used to her being a strict vegetarian that it seems like I’m giving up on the idea of Paige being Paige.