“Cricket!” said Kestrel. She had been facing down the White Hand — lifting her lopsided cradle-star, just in case. But the whole time Cricket was telling his story, it hadn’t moved. It moved now, drifting forward, as if to see what was wrong. Kestrel dove away from it, and was just in time to catch Cricket as he slid into the pine needles.
Otter watched the Hand three breaths more. It pressed toward them — and she could see the lines forming in the stuff of its body. Lines that had the same pattern as the cords of the ward. They would hold. The cords would hold.
She closed her eyes and shuddered with pure fear and release of fear. And then she turned to help Cricket.
Kestrel had him laid out on the pine needles, his head near the fire. The orange light leapt over his face, caught in the twisted gloss of his braids. “Thank you,” he said, lifting his one hand, reaching. Kestrel caught it. “Thank you.”
“Cricket.” Otter picked up the other hand: the one that had been in the pool of slip. It was limp, cold. Softer than it should have been, like meat going bad.
“I didn’t want to die,” he said. “I didn’t want the Hand to — I wanted to stay myself. I wanted to die still Cricket.”
“You’re not going to die,” said Kestrel.
Cricket opened his eyes. “You’ve never lied to me, Kestrel. I beg you: Don’t start.”
The fire cracked and popped; the trees howled. Then Kestrel said: “I won’t. I swear.”
She stroked the hair out of his face, tucked braids behind his ears.
“I was afraid you’d come,” he said. “But I hoped too — dreamed it …”
“Of course we came,” said Otter. “And we’ll take you home, Cricket. We’ll get you home.”
“Oh, good,” he said. “Because in my dream you did not have wings.”
“We cannot carry him such a distance, Otter,” said Kestrel.
Cricket coughed raggedly: a wet sound.
The touch of many slip was a mud to drown in.
The cough went on. Cricket turned his head away from Kestrel, rolled away, his shoulders pulling in, his back shaking.
Very gently, Kestrel pulled on his shoulder and turned him back. “Don’t go before you go,” she said. “Stay with me.”
He closed his eyes a moment, and swallowed so hard Otter could see it, a shuddering that ran all the way down him. “Lie down with me, okishae. Hold on to me. I don’t —” his voice cracked. “I don’t want to die.”
In answer, Kestrel reached for her pack. Otter put down Cricket’s already-dead hand to help her. They pulled out what soft, fine things they had. Their wolf hoods. Otter folded them into pillows. One buffalo robe between them. They spread it out next to the fire. They eased Cricket onto it.
“Like Fawn,” he whispered, and closed his eyes again. He lay panting a moment, then reached out, blindly, for Otter’s hand. She squeezed it. “Don’t take my body back,” he said. “Don’t even try. You’ll be killed, trying. Don’t even try.”
Otter choked back her “But —”
Kestrel lay down beside Cricket, slipping her arm under his head, pressing the length of her body to his.
Around Otter’s fingers, Cricket’s hand suddenly tightened. The cough came into him. Kestrel held him. He shook and shook.
“I’ve got you,” said Kestrel. “Cricket, I’ve got you. I’m not leaving you.”
But what Cricket said was: “Don’t bind me.”
Even Kestrel said: “What?”
“Mad Spider,” he said, “bound her mother too tightly. That’s where it started. That’s why the story —” His words were coming in bursts. He coughed again, but just once. “That’s why the story is a secret,” he said. “I was going there, if I could — I knew I couldn’t, but if I could. I was going to Eyrie. To Mad Spider’s place. Eyrie. Is the ward still standing? Willow asked: She was right to ask. The story” — he gasped — “ends where it begins.” He swallowed, another hard, shuddering swallow. “Don’t bind me.”
“Cricket —” objected Otter.
But Kestrel said: “We won’t.”
“I’m so frightened,” he said, his eyes closing, his voice going high as a child’s. “I’ve always been so frightened. Don’t let me go, Kestrel. Not yet.”
“I have hold of you,” she said, breathing into his ear, wrapping a leg over his, stroking his hair.
“I can’t feel it,” he said. “Hold on to me.”
Kestrel lifted his head and pulled him against her. And then she kissed him, fearsomely, fearlessly, until his eyes opened again. “Feel that?”
“Past the edge of the world, I would feel that.”
Then he coughed again, helplessly, horribly, endlessly, while Kestrel held him and Otter pushed both hands over her own mouth so she wouldn’t scream. But it didn’t kill him. He fought back into his breath, and said: “I’m so sorry, Kestrel.”
She dug her fingers into his hair, leaned her forehead into his, their noses touching. “I am not sorry.”
“Good enough.” He sighed, letting go of fear.
Otter’s hands were wet where the tears ran over them.
There was a huge gust of wind: The trees loosed a prickling fall of snow onto them. The fire sent up a whirl of sparks.