Sera pressed her forehead against the crate slats. Boris could not help her; she could only tell Sera what she had already guessed. She stared down at her palms and wished her magic could make her fly. Then she could get to Pelago or anywhere else.
“Mother Sun,” she whispered, her breath catching in her throat. “What am I supposed to do? Please. Help me.”
“Hush now, little sapling,” Boris said, and her words were like a song. “Hush now, don’t cry. All will be well.”
But Sera could not see how. Errol and Boris might know the island, but neither of them could get her there.
Boris began to hum then, a gentle melody like a child’s song, and it reminded Sera of the tune her purple mother used to play on the harp in the morning, a call for the dwelling to wake.
A light appeared at the base of Boris’s trunk, not silver like the dandelion seeds, but golden yellow. Sera couldn’t tell what it was, exactly, except that it was small and thin, no bigger than her littlest finger. Then it began to move, scuttling across the wooden platform toward her like an insect, and when it reached the crate, it crawled through the slats and hopped up to perch on her knee.
It was an odd-looking creature; a golden blade of grass with arms and legs and a tiny crown on its head. It gazed at her with wide yellow eyes, then did a little dance on her kneecap, finishing with a sweeping bow and doffing its crown. Sera could not help herself—she smiled and applauded. It felt like what was being asked of her. The creature beamed and put its crown back on.
“She knows you,” Boris whispered, and she sounded so tired. “And you know her. But she will not stay for long.”
Even as the tree spoke, the little grass creature began to fade, pieces of it disintegrating until nothing but golden dust remained.
“Boris, I—I’m so sorry,” Sera cried. “I don’t know . . . I didn’t mean to . . .”
“Do not be sad, sapling. My sprites are not born to live forever. She had her time. Others have had longer. Do not mourn them. They come from the earth and they return to the earth. The humans tried to take them, to steal them, but they are too quick and too clever.” The slash of the Arboreal’s mouth quirked like she was trying to smile. “I must sleep now. My roots are old and they have been through much. But a great gift you have given me, Sera Lighthaven. Seeds of light and love. The greatest of gifts.”
Silence wrapped around the space, as soft as the blanket around her shoulders, and Sera felt herself growing tired, as if Boris’s words had cast a spell upon her. She curled up in a ball, yawning. And as she began to drift off, she could not shake the feeling that Boris had seen a Cerulean before. But Sera could not see how that would be possible.
She awoke at dusk, the sky in the glass circle above turning a velvety blue limned in pale orange. Francis must have forgotten to close the cover, and Sera drank in the colors of the evening. She stretched, her fingers curling through the slats, and as she sat up a prickle ran down the length of her spine, a warning that told her she was being watched. She turned and saw a shadowy figure walking down the aisle.
“Agnes?” she called hopefully.
Then he stepped into the light, and Sera’s heart sank.
“No,” Leo said. “Not Agnes.”
It took Sera half a second to comprehend what he said.
“You . . . you can understand me?” she gasped.
He walked up the steps to the platform. She was struck by his expression, so different from the one she was used to, the one she first saw after he had declared her to be his, caught up in a net and terrified. He looked older, she thought, or maybe worn was a better word. Defeated, perhaps.
“I . . .” Leo looked down at his hands as if they could give him the words he needed to say. “Sera, I need to talk to you.”
31
Leo
HE’D HAD TO LIE HIS WAY PAST THE PEMBERTONS GUARDING the Maribelle to get in.
The theater was dim, the only light coming in from the glass ceiling, the sunset tinged with orange. The crate was onstage, and Leo could see Sera’s form reclining within. A thick curl of blue hair had fallen through the slats. She was still in the pink lace dress he had chosen for her, a blanket draped loosely over her slender frame, and the curve of her back moved softly with each slow breath.
Did she dream? he wondered. Did she see her home behind her closed lids? Did she miss her parents, her friends . . . maybe she had a sibling too, someone she fought with or teased. Leo knew absolutely nothing about her, yet he had taken her anyway, without a care, without a thought. All his life he had wanted to be just like his father, and with a start, he realized that he was.
He also realized he was standing watching her sleep, and that was a bit creepy. He took a step forward and she stirred. Her body stretched, her fingertips peeking through the slats, the curl vanishing as she sat up. She shivered, turned around, and saw him.
“Agnes?” she called hopefully.
Leo walked forward until he was at the edge of the pond. “No,” he said quietly. “Not Agnes.”
She stared at him, shocked, as he walked up the steps to the stage.
“You . . . you can understand me?” she gasped.
He’d forgotten that he was the only one who knew that information—he hadn’t even gotten to tell Agnes. He felt bent as he approached the crate, beaten down by the knowledge of what he’d done. He wished he could unlock the chain and let her out, but he didn’t have the key.
“I . . .” He looked down at his hands. “Sera, I need to talk to you.”
One of the saplings rustled, but otherwise the stage was silent. When Leo finally forced himself to look at her again, she was watching him with an expression he felt was usually reserved for spiders or unwanted vermin.
“How do you know my name? How can you understand me?” she demanded.
“I don’t know.” He stumbled over the words and cleared his throat. “Agnes told me your name. She didn’t mean to, it just slipped out. And I . . . I thought maybe you would know, you know, how I can understand you now when I couldn’t before.”
It was deeply uncomfortable for Leo to realize she might have understood him this whole time. What other awful things had he said? He vaguely remembered bragging about her at the inn they’d stopped at in the Knottle Plains.
“And why would I tell you?” she snarled. “I am a Cerulean and my blood is—oh.” Her lips parted and a light shone in her eyes. “My blood is magic,” she whispered, running her hand over the crook of her elbow where Kiernan had stuck her.
“I beg your pardon?” Leo supposed he shouldn’t be surprised by this revelation, and yet somehow he was.
“My blood mixed with yours,” she murmured, almost like she was talking to herself. “You have my magic inside you now, like Agnes does. Except I chose to give it to her. I would guess that’s why you can understand me.”
“You would guess?” He rubbed his palm where his father had cut it.
She glared at him. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”
“I just wanted to tell you that . . . I’m sorry.” The words came out on their own with no warning. “I’m sorry for what I’ve done.”
“Is that all?”