“Yes, I remember.”
“Oh. So . . . you knew him back then?”
I nod.
“What about before his parents were . . . ?”
“Vane didn’t tell you?”
“He hasn’t told me anything.”
I’m not sure how much I should say. But I can tell she’s desperate
for me to fill in some of the blanks. “I’ve known Vane since he was
six. My parents were in charge of protecting his family.” Her eyes widen as she processes that.
“Did your parents survive the storm?” she whispers. “My mother did.”
I leave out why. It’s safe to assume she wouldn’t be looking at
me with sad, sympathetic eyes if she knew I was the daughter of a
murderer. And I can’t say I’d blame her.
I clear my throat. “Anyway, after that, I volunteered to be his
guardian, and I’ve been watching him ever since. Trying to keep him
safe.”
“I can’t decide if that’s sweet or kind of . . . weird,” she says after
a second.
“Me either, honestly.”
She smiles. But it’s a hesitant smile. A tired smile.
“Did Vane know you were watching him?”
“I think he wondered. There were a few times when he accidentally saw me—but they were too quick for him to tell if I was real. He didn’t know for sure until a few weeks ago, when the Stormers found
us and I had to show myself so I could protect him.”
She nods, wringing the towel in her hands. “And now . . . you’re
back?”
This time I don’t miss the question in her tone.
I wait for her to look at me before I tell her, “As long as he wants
me to be.”
I can’t tell if she’s happy with that answer. It shouldn’t matter,
but . . .
I want his mom to like me.
It’s silly and childish and probably impossible. But seeing how
fiercely she loves her son makes me ache for a small sliver of acceptance—something I could hold on to, to tell myself I deserve the
beautiful boy I’ve stolen. Maybe it would ease a tiny bit of the guilt
that swells inside me every time I think about the angry betrayal I
saw in Solana’s eyes.
“Can you lift up your shirt a little more?”Vane’s mom asks, holding out the towel.
I do, leaning against the counter as she squats down and touches
the skin around my wound.
Her fingers are gentle but confident as she smoothes the jagged
edges of the cut. “This looks really painful.”
“I’ve had worse.”
She frowns, and I think she’s going to ask me what I mean.
Instead she says, “Is . . . there a breeze swirling around your skin?” “Oh—yes. It’s been keeping the wound clean for me.” “Uh-huh,” she mumbles as I unravel the draft and carry it to the window above the shower. I have to balance on the edge of the tub
to reach it.
I can tell the Westerly doesn’t want to leave, but it’s time to let
it go. “Stay safe,” I plead as I stand on my tiptoes and slide open
the glass. The draft whips around me, singing a song about drifting
through the dunes, and I hope that means it will stay nearby—but
I’m not going to tell it to. The wind deserves a choice.
I hold it up to the screen, letting it slip through the tiny holes as
I whisper a final thanks and tell it to “Be free.”
“Sometimes I have to remind myself that I’m not crazy,” his
mom murmurs as I watch the draft float away. “I mean . . . you talk
to the wind. And you fly. And you bring my son home bruised and
bleeding and . . .”
Her hands are shaking so much that she drops the towel. I step down from the tub and pick it up for her.
She leans against the counter, twisting the ends. “I’m sorry, I
know it’s not your fault. I just . . . I feel so helpless. Nobody taught
me how to raise a sylph king.”
“Well, you’re doing an incredible job. And we all know how difficult Vane is.”
Her lip trembles, and even though she smiles, a tear slips down
her cheek. “Promise me you’ll keep him safe.”
“I’m doing everything I can.”
She clears the emotion from her throat, wiping her eyes as she
kneels closer to me. “Right, I’m supposed to be helping you.” I grit my teeth as she presses the rag against my cut. “Does that hurt?” she asks, lightening the pressure.
“It’s just different from what I’m used to.” When the wind
cleans a wound, it feels more natural. But the real difference is the
concern in her eyes. I’m not sure my own mother has ever looked
at me that way.
Fresh blood seeps from the gash, and his mom wipes it away
before spreading a thick, clear balm over the wound. She presses a
square of soft cotton over my side and tapes the edges to hold it in
place. I trace my fingers along her handiwork when she’s done, surprised at how much better my side feels.
“Thank you.”
She smiles, but it twists into a frown when she takes another