But his eyes. His eyes are not cruel.
He has his place, I think. This is what he does. Foxfire’s muscles bunch beneath me, and my heart clenches. Maybe it isn’t his fault. Maybe he can’t be blamed. But this is what we do—we fight. And we will continue to fight until we can fight no longer.
“Go!” I cry.
Foxfire needs no more encouragement. I dig my bare ankles into her sides to hold on as she runs. She races amid the maze of gardens, her hooves throwing up snow behind us. Volkrig’s shadow follows. Foxfire turns sharply into the herb garden, and then the statuary. Each gate is sealed. Each wall too high to jump. The shadow follows. Sea and rot, right on top of us. His wings beat harder. His midnight hooves gnash at our backs. My nightgown rips, and I feel the sting of torn skin on my shoulder, but I don’t let go of Foxfire’s mane.
There has to be a way out of the gardens.
There has to.
This is what I do. I do not give in.
I dig my heels into her sides, and Foxfire weaves around a stone pond with a statue of Apollo. A crash sounds behind us. Volkrig’s hooves have slammed into it and broken off Apollo’s head. We reach the end of the garden and I guide Foxfire to the right, into the rose garden. It’s narrower here. Overgrown. Scraggly briars catch at us, but at least the domed branches slow Volkrig. The tunnel of winter-dead roses ends and we are spit out into a sudden wide expanse. Skeletons of azaleas flank the sides, but there is nothing overhead. No trellises. No overgrown vines.
Only snow and a sinister shadow.
Fear plunges deep in my chest. Is this how it ends?
But Foxfire doesn’t stop running. I dig in my heels, nudging her to the left to circle back around to the sundial garden, but she ignores me. Her head is down, and her mane is whipping in my face, and her muscles are ice and steel. And then something rumbles beneath my knees.
I gasp.
She paws the earth one more time, and then leaps into the night. Twenty-foot wings sweep out on either side. I clutch her mane, wrapping my ankles tighter, as my heart stops with the thrill. Healed! At last, she is healed! Wind races by us. It tangles in my hair and it pushes at her wings and it lifts us.
We
are
flying.
We are flying.
I FORGET ABOUT VOLKRIG. I forget about the stillwaters and the freezing wind.
Foxfire’s body is so alive beneath me. Her white wings beat with the sound of thunder. Her shoulders ripple as she lunges for clouds, each one higher than the next.
Dizzy, I look down to see the map of the overgrown garden beneath us. We fly above the barren rosebushes with their sharp briars. Above the broken fountain and hungry ivy. We fly above the hospital roof. We fly above the spectral shield that, without the comic book, shall never be quite finished, but that is okay. We are our own prism of light now.
I press a hand to my chest, but up here, the air is so clear that I don’t feel the urge to cough. I can pull air into my lungs, and there are no murky stillwaters, not one drip. The next time I look down, we fly even above Volkrig.
The Black Horse is nothing but a memory.
Foxfire beats her wings, and takes us even higher. I want to go high, high, as high as the sky.
I WONDER IF MARJORIE’S bird with the broken wings ever made it this high.
I wonder if any living creature at all ever makes it this high, or if it is only the realm for floating gods.
CAN I TELL YOU A SECRET?
I know now why the Horse Lord crossed into our world and called himself Thomas and lived in a little cottage. It is because our world that stretches out below—the hills and the trees and the sun breaking over the rooftops—is more than just brown and gray. There is color there. There are greens and reds and blues as deep as the sea.
You just have to know where to look.
WHEN I WAKE, I am staring at white clouds.
It takes a moment to recognize the painting on the ceiling of Anna’s room. My head aches in a dull way, and my throat is very dry, but I feel warm.
I sit up.
The windows are open, and fresh air drifts in. A tray of steaming tea sits on the bedside table. The silver bell to ring for the Sisters. A brand-new bottle filled with syrupy yellow medicine. Dr. Turner must have come.
Little Arthur is sitting at the foot of my bed, drawing quietly, bent over a fan of loose pages. Anna’s broken pencils are scattered on the quilt, and he is trying to draw with the broken nub of the blue pencil.
I look out the window. How many days have I been here, recovering? The last thing I remember is Foxfire’s wings beating the air as the sun rose above the horizon, casting the sky in shades of pinks and purples. And the sun was so beautiful, a soft yellow, the same yellow as the butter that is melting on a piece of toast next to the tea.
Toast.
I’m famished.
I draw in a deep breath, hesitantly testing my lungs. I take a bite, and the toast slips down my sore throat. That clawing pain has lessened. I feel better.
I whirl to look at my open door.