“Most fairy tales are.” Bowing her head, she kissed the top of April’s head. “Go back to your mother now. Dream about what you want to be for Halloween, okay?”
Solemn, April rose, grabbing the shoulder of one of the boys when she wobbled on her way back to the shadows. The soft sounds of their mother-daughter conversation evolving into silence dug at Trisk, and she held herself before the paper fire, wishing things were different.
His exhalation soft, Daniel sat down beside her. “I don’t know what you’re worried about. You’re going to make a great mom.”
Trisk blinked fast, refusing to cry. From the far side of the car, Kal turned his back on them, rolling over and pretending to go to sleep. Saying nothing, she wadded up another sheet of paper and tossed it on the flames. “Maybe someday.”
“That was a true story, wasn’t it?” Daniel said, and she nodded.
“Except for the princess part,” she admitted. “She was a dark elf raised by dryads sometime in the early part of the twelfth century.” Leaving a dark-haired baby in the woods to die of exposure was not allowed anymore. Even her genetic diversity had value.
“Tree spirits?” Daniel whispered, leaning close to hide his lips. “They really exist?”
“They used to. I don’t think there are any alive in the U.S. anymore.” She tossed another wad of paper on the fire, thinking it was ironic. “It’s said that some of England’s old-growth forests might still be alive, but dryads are sensitive to pollution. They’re probably extinct.”
Daniel silently looked at the quickly burning flames. “Together, you outnumber us. I would’ve thought you could do something about it.”
A bitter frustration rose from nowhere. “We don’t have a lot of options when it comes to saving at-risk species.”
Her eyes went to Kal at the faintest clatter of pixy wings as Orchid dropped down to sample the hard candy he’d saved for her. The dryads were probably long gone. Pixies and fairies were next on the list as human and Inderland populations grew, pushing the softer species into smaller and smaller pockets, and she looked from Kal to the humans dying among their blankets and misery. She couldn’t help but wonder why their human existence was more valuable than the dryads or pixies. Maybe if the weaker Inderland species came out of hiding, humans would modify their behavior to save them.
But then again, vampires, witches, Weres, and elves were just as bad about creating air pollution and toxic waste dumps.
Not any closer to finding an answer, Trisk huddled under her blanket, cold and hungry when the last of the paper fire flickered and went out, leaving only the click-click of the wheels and a square of lighter darkness to mark the horizon.
24
It was the gradual cessation of the click-click that woke her, more than the gentle bump as the train ceased moving. Cold. It was so cold. Trisk opened her eyes, her focus on the brighter reflected bands of light on the ceiling of the boxcar, now flooded with the frigid glow of dawn. Quen, she thought, hoping he was okay, her heartache colored with a flash of anger that he’d left so she could not see him suffer, not knowing if he was going to live or die.
One of the boys was crying, his sobs bracketed by the low voice of his uncle consoling him. Rolling toward the open door, she saw Daniel sitting on the floor of the car as he put his shoes on. His exhaled breath was gold in the sun, and she tugged her blanket tighter about herself.
“The boys lost their parents last night,” Daniel said softly as their eyes met.
Trisk’s brow furrowed in sorrow. “Oh no.” She sat up, her attention going to the corner where April had fallen asleep with her mom and dad. There was nothing to see but heaped blankets. Behind Daniel, the boys’ uncle had lurched out of the boxcar, his shoes grinding on loose rock as he helped the boys down one at a time.
“They don’t show any signs of illness,” Daniel said as the man exchanged a word with Kal standing beside the tracks before turning to give them a wave good-bye and silently herding his new charges toward the nearby buildings, bright with new sun in the chilled air. “I told them to stay away from tomatoes. They should be okay.”
But Trisk didn’t think anything would ever be okay again. Knees hurting, she got up to check on April and her family. She was slow and stiff from the hard floor, and grimy from too long without a shower, and cold from exposure. But everything paled when she realized there was no sound coming from the blankets, no coughing, no soft movements. “April?” she called, and Daniel’s hand landed on her shoulder, stopping her.
“Don’t.”
Trisk shrank from his gentle touch, her flash of panic evolving into a frantic need to do something. It couldn’t be too late. It had only been a few hours. But then a small noise struck through her. April was still alive.
“Trisk, please,” Daniel said again as she lurched to go to her, pulled back once more.