The Girl Who Drank the Moon(85)

And Xan took Glerk’s hand, and they turned their faces toward the endless Bog, and began walking. They didn’t look back.



The next day, Luna and her mother made the long walk to the Tower, up the stairs, and to that small room to gather the last of Xan’s things, and to prepare her body for her last journey to the ground. Adara wound her arm around Luna’s shoulder, an antidote to sorrow. Luna stepped out of her mother’s protective embrace, grabbing Adara’s hand instead. And together they opened the door.

The former Sisters were waiting for them in the empty room. “We don’t know what happened,” they said, their eyes bright with tears. The bed was empty, and cold. There was no sign of Xan anywhere.

Luna felt her heart go numb. She looked at her mother, who had the same eyes. The same mark on the brow. There is no love without loss, she thought. My mother knows this. Now I know it, too. Her mother gave her hand a tender squeeze and pressed her lips against the girl’s black hair. Luna sat on the bed, but she did not cry. Instead, her hand drifted to the bed, where she found a piece of paper tucked just under the pillow.

“The heart is built of starlight

And time.

A pinprick of longing lost in the dark.

An unbroken chord linking the Infinite to the Infinite.

My heart wishes upon your heart and the wish is granted.

Meanwhile the world spins.

Meanwhile the universe expands.

Meanwhile the mystery of love reveals itself,

again and again, in the mystery of you.

I have gone.

I will return.

Glerk”

Luna dried her eyes and folded the poem into the shape of a swallow. It sat motionless in her hand. She went outside, leaving her mother behind. The sun was just beginning to rise. The sky was pink and orange and dark blue. Somewhere, a monster and a witch wandered the world. And it was good, she decided. It was very, very good.

The wings of the paper swallow began to shiver. They opened. They beat. The swallow tilted its head toward the girl.

“It’s all right,” she said. Her throat hurt. Her chest hurt. Love hurt. So why was she happy? “The world is good. Go see it.”

And the bird leaped into the sky and flew away.





48.


In Which a Final Story Is Told





Yes.

There is a witch in the woods.

Well, of course there is a witch. She came round the house just yesterday. You’ve seen her, I’ve seen her, we’ve all seen her.

Well, of course she doesn’t just advertise her witchiness. It would be rude. What a thing to say!

She turned magic when she was just a baby. Another witch, an ancient witch, filled her to bursting with more power than she knew what to do with. And the magic flowed and flowed from the old witch into the new, the way water flows down the mountain. That’s what happens when a witch claims someone as her own—someone to be protected above all else. The magic flows and flows until there is no more left to give.

That’s how our Witch claimed us. The whole Protectorate. We are hers and she is ours. Her magic blesses us and all that we see. It blesses the farms and the orchards and the gardens. It blesses the Bog and the Forest and even the Volcano. It blesses us all equally. This is why the people of the Protectorate are healthy and hale and shining. This is why our children are rosy-cheeked and clever. This is why we have happiness in abundance.

Once upon a time, the Witch received a poem from the Beast of the Bog. Perhaps it was the poem that made the world. Perhaps it was the poem that will end it. Perhaps it is something else entirely. All I know is that the Witch keeps it safe in a locket under her cloak. She belongs to us, but one day her magic will fade and she will wander back into the Bog and we won’t have a witch anymore. Only stories. Perhaps she will find the Beast. Or become the Beast. Or become the Bog. Or become a Poem. Or become the world. They are all the same thing, you know.





Acknowledgments



Writing a book is lonely. No one writes a book alone. These things sound incongruous, but both are true. Every day, I sat at my desk by myself, wrestling with dead wizards and sorrow eaters and ruined castles and impertinent eleven-year-olds and swamp monsters who should know better. Some days this work was easy. Most days it was hard. These struggles were mine alone—but I had help. Here are the people who helped me:

Anne Ursu—idea midwife, calmer-downer, and salve of my soul.

The Black Sheep—Bryan Bliss, Steve Brezenoff, Jodi Chromey, Karlyn Coleman, Christopher Lincoln, and Kurtis Scaletta. You know why.

The McKnight Foundation, for making things easy for a little while.

The children’s literature community of Minnesota. Seriously. We could populate several small towns.

Elise Howard, who is a lovely genius and a better editor than I deserve; who insisted that I write this book sooner rather than later; and who is right about all things.

Steven Malk—man of mystery. One of my favorite humans. Literary agents have super powers—I am completely convinced of this. I’m so lucky to have his eyes and ears and brain and relentless enthusiasm pushing my work ever forward.