Wink Poppy Midnight(29)

“Did I dream it?” I asked Wink. “Did I just dream it all up, what we did?”

She looked at me and shook her head. “No, Midnight.” She took the apple, one last bite, and then threw it into the trees.

I couldn’t go in. I stood on the broken, splintered steps, and couldn’t go in.

It was lighter already. The sky was gray, not black.

I wondered how long Poppy had screamed before finally giving up.

I’d never get the sound of her screams out of my head, or my heart.

Is this what it meant to be the hero? Is this what Wink thought it meant?

I wondered if Poppy tried to chew her way through the rope. I wondered if she pulled at it until her wrists bled, like in my nightmare.

I wondered what kind of person she would be now.

I wondered what kind of person I would be now.

Wink took my hand and pulled me through the Roman Luck door.

Down the hall.

Into the music room.

Poppy’s arms were above her head, smooth and translucent in the murky dawn light. I could see the veins running down the inside of her elbows. Her right cheek rested against her shoulder. I couldn’t see her eyes.

There was blood. Dried flakes of it on her chin, and down her neck.

“She must have cried so hard she bit her tongue,” Wink whispered. Her voice was soft and calm and normal . . . but her face looked worried.

“Poppy,” I called out, keeping my voice low, and strong, like a hero’s. “Poppy, wake up. We’re going to let you go. We’re sorry we left you here all night, but you can leave now.”

She didn’t move. I took out my pocket knife, flipped it open. I stepped forward. The floor creaked.

No eyelids fluttering. No moaning. No squirming. Nothing.

I looked back over my shoulder at Wink. And she was . . . she was . . . she looked . . .

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wink ran forward. Down to her knees, her cheek on Poppy’s chest, ear to her heart.

“The knife,” she said. “Quick.”

I cut the rope, hacked at it, hacked and hacked, why had I used my knife to cut up all the cardboard moving boxes? Alabama had told me that cardboard would dull the blade— The rope snapped in two.

Poppy’s arms dropped, heavy, like lead. Stone. Her skirt was pushed up and her hands smacked against her bare legs before hitting the floor.

Wink wrapped Poppy in her arms. She leaned her head against her shoulder, gently, gently.

I stopped breathing.

The edges of the room blurred.

Wink was staring at me. Her eyes seemed huge, big as saucers, like the dog in the story she read in the hayloft, the one about the tinderbox and the soldier.

Poppy moved. Just a little, just her lips.

“Midnight.”

Her voice came quiet, like a thief in the night.

“Midnight.”

Her eyelids fluttered . . .

I couldn’t stand it, I couldn’t stand looking at her. I didn’t want to see what her eyes would say, once they opened . . .

I turned away and stared at the fluttering red curtains instead.

“Midnight.”

The red curtains fluttered and fluttered. You could really see how dirty they were, in the dawn light. Sun-bleached, faded to pink in places and teeming with dust and grime. Flutter, flutter.

“You didn’t come back,” she said. “You left me here, and you didn’t come back.”

I didn’t look at Poppy. I didn’t look at Wink. I just stared and stared at the red flutter flutter.

Flutter. Flutter.

I ran.

Down the hall and out the door and down the steps and into the woods.

I ran away.

Heroes didn’t run away.

I wasn’t a hero.

I turned and looked over my shoulder, and there was Wink, coming right after me, acorn skirt and freckles and saucer-green eyes.

She was fast. She caught up. She grabbed me and held me.

Her skin melted into mine, blood to blood, bone to bone. We hugged and melted into each other as the sun burst into the sky and the birds started singing.

“I have to go,” Wink said. “I helped Poppy to the green sofa, but she’s not well, Midnight. She didn’t want me to leave her alone. You need to go back to her. Stay with her. I’m going to get Mim.”





   THE WOLF DIDN’T look like the Wolf anymore, tied to the piano with dried blood on her face.

   She just looked like a girl named Poppy.





I DID IT. I went back.

The green sofa was a mess of blond hair and black skirt and long legs. I kneeled down. Her eyes were closed and I didn’t know what to do at first, so I just took the corner of my shirt and wiped at the blood around her mouth.

“I can’t move my arms,” she said.

Her voice was hoarse, and raw, and soft. Her cheeks were pale and waxy, and her skin was cold, snow-cold, ice-cold.

“My hands are numb, so numb, Midnight. I can’t move them at all.”

I wanted to turn away and stare at the curtains again.

I wanted to run.

But I didn’t. This time I didn’t.

I started to rub her arms from shoulder to fingertips. I rubbed until my fingers ached, over and over and up and down, and please move your arms again, Poppy.