The Strange and Beautiful Sorrows of Ava Lavender(58)

“What is this? Are you bleeding?” Viviane did a quick check of Henry’s fingers and arms, his nose, ears, stomach, tongue.

Henry shook his head and slapped her hands away. “There’s red on the floor and feathers everywhere!” he shouted, stabbing the map with angry fingers.

“Henry, listen to me . . .” Viviane spoke slowly. She hated when other people did that, spoke to Henry as if he were still a small child, but sometimes it was hard to tell if he was listening.

She took a long look at her son, wrapped in blankets and a rain jacket, his worried face sticking out from the hood.

“You were certainly smart to wear a coat,” she mused. The day had not implied that such a fierce storm was on its way.

“It happens after the rain,” Henry said.

After the rain?

“You knew,” she whispered. “You knew it was going to rain.” And if he knew that, what else did he know? What happens after the rain?

Henry pushed his map at her again. “Pinna is hurt,” he pleaded. “The Sad Man says listen.”

The engine of the old truck finally turned over and roared to life.





NATHANIEL LED ME to the back of the house, where a fire blazed. The fireplace was made of stacked stone and ran from the ceiling down to the floor, where it yawned into an opening large enough that I could feel the heat of the fire from the hallway. A pile of newly cut wood was stacked beside the fireplace, the ax delicately tipped into the top log.

I’d never actually been in anyone else’s house before — not even Cardigan’s. It was strange, doing things that other people — normal people — did. But the thing was, being in that house didn’t make me feel like everyone else. Instead, I felt as if I were acting out a part in a play, a fictional character playing a role that someone else had written for me. When it was over, I would take my place at curtain call, and then I would go home to where I was real again.

Marigold Pie’s living-room floor was covered with a soft brown carpet. There was an olive-green couch and a glass-topped coffee table in the room. A tall table in a corner held glass bottles of different shapes and sizes, each containing a fluid of some color or another. An impressive ship in a bottle was displayed on the mantel. The only thing that I wasn’t sure about was the huge needlepoint kitten staring at me from over the mantel. I figured that was just an isolated lapse in taste.

Nathaniel leaned his umbrella against the metal screen in front of the hearth and walked over to the table of bottles. “How about something to drink? Might help with the cold,” he said.

I hesitated for a second. “Okay.”

I stood quietly in front of the fire, the warmth of the flames wicking through my calves and my outstretched hands until I stopped shivering. I pulled off my socks and shoes, hung the socks on the fire screen, and stretched the tongues out from my shoes before setting them in front of the fire. I pulled Rowe’s coat from my shoulders and draped it, lovingly, next to my socks. I shook out my wings, scattering little droplets of water across the room, sprinkling pictures and furniture.

“Some brandy should warm you right up,” Nathaniel said, handing me a glass. He sat down on the floor in front of the fire.

I sat down next to him, watched the way he swirled his drink and placed his nose at the edge of the glass before drinking the gold liquid. When I tried to do the same, I inhaled too deeply. My nostrils burned and I could already taste the brandy in the back of my throat. Determinedly, I took a sip. It stung my lips. When I swallowed, my tongue wanted to spring from my mouth. But then a warmth, like slow-burning honey, ran through me. It was not entirely unpleasant, but I didn’t drink any more.

The fire crackled; the flames faded to short purple triangles. Nathaniel added another log to the blaze, and I watched the fire grow with a sharp hiss. He settled next to me and tipped the last of his drink into his mouth, then got up and set the empty glass on the fireplace before sitting down next to me again. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he said.

I could smell the tang of the alcohol on his breath, the stink of unwash on his skin. I was suddenly very aware that I was alone in a strange house with a strange man I hardly knew.

“Where’s your aunt?” I asked.

“She’s around,” he said noncommittally.

“I should go,” I said, pulling away. “I need to find my mom.”

“You can’t go yet,” he commanded, and grabbed at one of my wings, making me yelp. A dark look crossed his face. But when he looked down at the handful of feathers in his hand, he laughed a little and let go. “I have something to show you,” he said, his voice amicable once again. “Just wait for a minute.”

I swallowed hard. “Okay,” I lied.

I jumped up as soon as he left the room, knocking over my glass of brandy. As quietly as I could, I wandered up the hall. I took a wrong turn and found myself in a room where I could just make out the shapes of furniture in the dark — a couch, a lamp, a chair. I stepped in farther and felt the floor under my feet dip and change. I crouched down to peer at the carpet. A path that ran the length of a large center window had been worn into the carpet, like a trail cut through a forest grove.

I stood back and looked up. The window provided a clear view of my house, of my bedroom window. Then something on the windowsill caught my eye. It was a feather — not brown and white like my own — but jet black and as long as my arm. The feather was beautiful, shiny and gleaming. I reached for the floor lamp standing next to me and switched it on. Then I saw them.