No, I think, drawing my knees up to my chest and pressing my face against my crossed arms. I won’t cry for him. He doesn’t deserve it.
I take all the memories flooding my brain—Joe lifting me onto his shoulders at the zoo so I could see the animals better; dancing with me and Mom and Dad in the family room; playing Candy Land with me at the dining room table—and force them back into a dark corner of my mind. None of it matters. The happy memories I had with him don’t make up for what he did to me, to my family. He was a monster, and he deserved a monstrous death.
I repeat it to myself over and over again, hoping it will make me believe it.
When I finally look up, I see another body. Henry’s body. At first I think he’s still pretending, like we’d planned for him to do earlier, so he could slip into the trees and sneak around the side of the battle to get to Joe, but that can’t be right.… Joe’s dead, which means Henry already did that, and he’s lying on the ground now because … because …
Because Joe pushed him. Because he hit his head.
Henry.
I push off the ground and run to him. His eyes are closed and his breathing’s shallow. “Henry, wake up,” I say, crouching next to him. I run the back of my hand over his face as he’s done to me so many times. He’s cold—should he be this cold?
I pull off my jacket and lay it on top of his chest. “Henry, come on. Wake up.”
I’m distantly aware of Celia’s magic healing the fallen guardians while the Old Ones bind Joe’s supporters in shackles.
“Celia,” I yell. “Celia, it’s Henry!”
Her eyes meet mine, and then she sees Henry lying on the ground. She picks up her skirts and runs toward us.
“I’m sorry I lied to you,” I whisper to him, pushing his hair off his brow. “I thought it would be easier. You were leaving no matter what—you still are—and I thought if I acted like I never felt anything for you, it would be better for us both. But the truth is I’ve never felt this way about anyone, so I need you to wake up, now, okay? I need you to wake up and show me you’re not bleeding internally somewhere because this isn’t your time, you hear me?”
Celia crouches down on his other side and places her hands on him. “He’s all right, dear. Only a concussion.” She takes a deep breath, and a bright green glow that reminds me of Henry’s eyes appears underneath her hands. “Medicor’ae.”
Color seeps back into his face, and the burns from my fireflies fade away into small, shimmering scars, almost as if they were never there. His eyes roll behind their lids.
“Well,” I say, laughter rising over my words as I wipe away the tears clinging to my lashes, “that’s convenient.”
Celia reaches for me. “May I?”
I look down at my arms, where dirt clings to the slices of skin the Sentinels ripped away. The wound on my face pinches, dried blood cracking and peeling and bleeding again.
I nod.
She places one hand on my shoulder, the other above my heart, and chants something beneath her breath. I watch my arms as the cuts slowly fade, new skin bubbling up into the cracks. It reminds me of the grout Mom used when she replaced the bathroom tiling.
I rub my hand over the new skin, the pearlescent scars. “Thank you.”
She smiles.
Henry’s lashes flutter. “Winter.”
Celia looks at me. “It seems he’s grown fond of you, my dear.”
My cheeks warm.
Henry takes a deep breath, his eyes brightening. “What happened?”
“We did it,” I say. “Joe’s dead.”
That word—dead—echoes through my mind. Dead, as in I’m never going to see him again. Dead, as in his immortal life, which was so permanent only twenty-four hours ago, has been irrevocably snuffed out.
He did it to himself. He deserved it. It doesn’t matter that he lost someone, that he had his reasons. Everyone has their reasons to do horrible things if they only think about them long enough.
Don’t. Cry.
“Are you all right?” Henry asks. He reaches up, brushing a strand of hair off my face, and his eyes are so full of concern, I feel something break inside.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“Alban has called for an emergency meeting tomorrow morning to discuss the sentences of the prisoners and council’s next steps, but for now he wants the guardians to return home and rest,” Celia says. “There’s nothing more you can do today. The council members, however, are a different story.” She glances at Henry. “They want us to return to headquarters for questioning.”
“What sort of questioning?” I ask.
Celia’s lips thin. “About Henry, about us adopting him and teaching him about the wood.”
“But—” The trees in front of me blur. I shake my head, trying to make sense of what she’s saying. “But he’ll be all right, won’t he? I mean, the council wouldn’t do anything to—to hurt him, would they?”
“Of course not,” Celia says, “but we may be put under restriction, and, well, Henry will most likely be forbidden from ever setting foot in the wood again.”
I knew this was going to happen, regardless of whether it was a decree from the council or not. He has to live in his own time—he has to—that’s it. End of story. So why does it feel like such a shock?
Celia stands. “I’ll give you two a moment to say good-bye.”
“Good-bye? But I’m not—”
“You’re not what, Parish?” Henry asks as he pushes himself up onto his elbows. Celia gives us a knowing look, disappearing into the crowd of guardians and council members speaking in hushed tones.
I swallow. “I’m not ready to say good-bye to you.”
He grins. “Are you finally ready to admit you will miss me?”
My eyes burn. I squeeze them shut, but it doesn’t help. “Yes,” I say. “I’ll miss you.”
He smiles, but it’s a sad smile. A good-bye smile. “You are a remarkable woman, Winter Parish, and an even more remarkable guardian. I have never met anyone who could have done the things you have done this day. No matter what fate has in store for us, know I will never forget you.”
He presses his lips to mine. The kiss is salty from my tears and his jaw is hard as if he’s trying not to cry, too, and it’s the worst kiss I’ve ever had in my entire life because in it is written everything I feel for him and it’s not enough to make him stay.
He breaks the kiss and squeezes my hand. “Come,” he says, standing. “We will walk you home before we leave.”
I wipe the backs of my hands across my eyes. “Don’t your parents need me to guide them to headquarters?”
“They were born here, remember? I imagine they know the way better than you.”
“Oh. Right.”
Henry grabs his parents, and together we walk through the wood, toward my threshold. Too soon, I see the kitchen windows through the trees. I turn back to Henry and his parents. “Please, before you go, just tell me”—I take a deep breath, steeling myself—“what exactly happened to my father? When he was pushed off the path?”
Augustus’s frown lines deepen. “The wood is not meant for mortals. You know that as well as anyone.”