The Girl Who Drank the Moon(22)

Her eyes slid from one end of him to the other, up, down, and sideways, never finding purchase. She couldn’t pin him down.

“Do I know you?” she said slowly.

“No, ma’am,” Antain said.

“You look”—she swallowed—“familiar.” Each word seemed to be drawn from a very deep well.

Antain looked around. There was also a small table with more paper, but this was drawn on. Strange, intricate maps with words he didn’t understand and markings he did not know. And all of them with the same phrase written in the bottom right corner: “She is here; she is here; she is here.”

Who is here? Antain wondered.

“Ma’am, I am a member of the Council. Well, a provisional member. An Elder-in Training.”

“Ah,” she said, and she slumped back down onto the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. “You. I remember you. Have you come to ridicule me, too?”

She closed her eyes and laughed.

Antain stepped backward. He felt a shiver at the sound of her laugh, as though someone was slowly pouring a tin of cold water down his back. He looked up at the paper birds hanging from the ceiling. Strange, but all of them were suspended from what looked like strands of long, black, wavy hair. And even stranger: they were all facing him. Had they been facing him before?

Antain’s palms began to sweat.

“You should tell your uncle,” she said very, very slowly, laying each word next to the one before, like a long, straight line of heavy, round stones, “that he was wrong. She is here. And she is terrible.”

She is here, the map said.

She is here.

She is here.

She is here.

But what did it mean?

“Who is where?” Antain asked, in spite of himself. Why was he talking to her? One can’t, he reminded himself, reason with the mad. It can’t be done. The paper birds rustled overhead. It must be the wind, Antain thought.

“The child he took? My child?” She gave a hollow laugh. “She didn’t die. Your uncle thinks she is dead. Your uncle is wrong.”

“Why would he think she is dead? No one knows what the Witch does with the children.” He shivered again. There was a shivery, rustling sound to his left, like the flapping of a paper wing. He turned but nothing moved. He heard it again at his right. Again. Nothing.

“All I know is this,” the mother said as she pulled herself unsteadily to her feet. The paper birds began to lift and swirl.

It is just the wind, Antain told himself.

“I know where she is.”

I am imagining things.

“I know what you people have done.”

Something is crawling down my neck. My god. It’s a hummingbird. And—OUCH!

A paper raven swooped across the room, slicing its wing across Antain’s cheek, cutting it open, letting him bleed.

Antain was too amazed to cry out.

“But it doesn’t matter. Because the reckoning is coming. It’s coming. It’s coming. And it is nearly here.”

She closed her eyes and swayed. She was clearly mad. Indeed, her madness hung about her like a cloud, and Antain knew he had to get away, lest he become infected by it. He pounded on the door, but it didn’t make any sound. “LET ME OUT,” he shouted to the Sisters, but his voice seemed to die the moment it fell from his mouth. He could feel his words thud on the ground at his feet. Was he catching madness? Could such a thing happen? The paper birds shuffled and shirred and gathered. They lifted in great waves.

“PLEASE!” he shouted as a paper swallow went for his eyes and two paper swans bit his feet. He kicked and swatted, but they kept coming.

“You seem like a nice boy,” the mother said. “Choose a different profession. That’s my advice.” She crawled back into bed.

Antain pounded on the door again. Again his pounding was silent.

The birds squawked and keened and screeched. They sharpened their paper wings like knives. They massed in great murmurations—swelling and contracting and swelling again. They reared up for the attack. Antain covered his face with his hands.

And then they were upon him.





14.


In Which There Are Consequences





When Luna woke, she felt different. She didn’t know why. She lay in her bed for a long time, listening to the singing of the birds. She didn’t understand a thing they were saying. She shook her head. Why would she understand them in the first place? They were only birds. She pressed her hands to her face. She listened to the birds again.

“No one can talk to birds,” she said out loud. And it was true. So why did it feel like it wasn’t? A brightly colored finch landed on the windowsill and sang so sweetly, Luna thought her heart would break. Indeed, it was breaking a little, even now. She brought her hands to her eyes and realized that she was crying, though she had no idea why.

“Silly,” she said out loud, noticing a little waver and rattle in her voice. “Silly Luna.” She was the silliest girl. Everyone said so.

She looked around. Fyrian was curled up at the foot of her bed. That was regular. He loved sleeping on her bed, though her grandmother often forbade it. Luna never knew why.

At least she thought she didn’t know why. But it felt, deep inside herself, that maybe once upon a time she did. But she couldn’t remember when.