An Artificial Night

I was done.

The darkness was almost polite as it came for me, wrapping itself around my fading mind. I had time to wonder if the night-haunts would be able to find me in Blind Michael’s lands; then there was only darkness and the sweet taste of blood.

I was done.





THIRTY-ONE



THE TASTE OF BLOOD WOKE ME. I opened my eyes and rolled over, spitting at the ground. It didn’t help. The air around me was light—too light—with a strange, even brightness. It was a little jarring. I sat up and looked around, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

I was lying on a bed of moss at the edge of Acacia’s forest, shrouded by the sheltering trees. The branches above me were putting out new leaves, pale green and trembling in the air. They were growing. Everything was growing. The sky between the branches was dark, but three pale moons shone against the blackness, surrounded by a scattering of stars. The strange new light was moonlight. The stars didn’t form constellations I knew, but it was comforting to see them; they were a sign that the long night of this land was changing, if not coming to an end.

The bushes rustled behind me, and I turned to see Acacia walking toward me. The branches bent away from her as she walked, avoiding the hem of her gray silk gown, and her short-cropped hair was curled into a nest of tiny knots that rearranged themselves as I watched. She wasn’t wearing her cloak. I stared at her, openmouthed, as I realized what she’d been hiding. I’d never seen her without that cloak; she’d changed gowns, but the covering had always remained the same. I could finally see why.

Acacia had opened her wings. They were broad moth’s wings, pale green with golden “eyes” at their tops. The edges were tattered from their long confinement, but they’d heal; anything that could last as long as she had would need to be resilient. And they were beautiful.

“You have wings,” I said, amazed.

“I do,” she said, still smiling.

“But why did you hide them?”

“Because if Michael forgot them, he wouldn’t take them like he took everything else.” She tilted her face upward, closing her eyes. “I can feel the stars. Even with my eyes closed, I can feel the stars.”

“Is he . . . ?” I couldn’t think of a polite way to ask if I’d killed her husband, so I stopped.

“Dead? Yes, you killed him.” She smiled, eyes still closed. “He’s as dead as dead can be. No more midnight rides or stolen children, no more blood on his hands—or on mine.”

“Bloody hands.” I looked down at my own hands, almost afraid of what I’d see. Dried blood was caked under my nails and in the creases of my knuckles, but the cuts were gone. My skin was whole. “I’m not bleeding.”

“You paid the toll.”

I started to stand, stopping and wincing as I tried to put weight on my left arm. Looking more closely, I saw that my jacket and sweater were slashed open all the way to the elbow; the cut beneath was long and raw. “Not entirely.”

“My husband gave you that. It wasn’t part of your fee.” She lowered her head, opening her eyes. “Consider it a part of your reward.”

“What happens now? Are you free?”

“What does free mean, I wonder?” Acacia shook her head. “I won’t leave these lands, if that’s what you mean; they’ve been my home too long. I don’t know the world you come from. It would be no home for me.”

“Luna’s there.”

“I know. I’ll visit—I can do that, now. I can visit all my children.” This time her smile was sweet and wistful. “I’ve missed them. Luna especially.”

“I think she’s missed you, too.”

“She was always a good girl. She tried to stay. But she was dying here.”