Spindle Fire (Spindle Fire #1)(25)

“Go on,” Heath prods. “What happened after the murders?”

She tells him about Isbe, and how she fled into the night to find her but discovered instead the abandoned summer cottage. Her chest expands with breath as she tells of the spinning wheel, golden and glimmering, as big as a forest beast, and how she woke up here in this place so unfamiliar to her. With every detail, she feels a warm honey glow rising up inside her until it seems her voice must be the brightest light in the room. “All I can guess,” Aurora finishes, “is that the spindle must have been enchanted too. Belcoeur was a weaver, correct?”

Heath nods. “It’s all she does, even now.”

“Perhaps the spinning wheel belonged to her then, before she left my world for Sommeil.”

“But if what you say is true,” Heath ponders, “then why would Malfleur banish Belcoeur here, only to leave a way into Sommeil?”

“Maybe Malfleur didn’t banish her after all. Perhaps Belcoeur . . .” Aurora pauses. “Perhaps she came here of her own free will. Perhaps she is the one who left the way in.”

“Left a way in but not a way out?”

Aurora shrugs helplessly. There’s nothing about this in any of her faerie histories. “I already told you, I don’t have any answers. I’m more lost than you are.”

He gets up and paces. “I want to get you home, Aurora. And if we do—when we do, I’m coming with you. I’ve waited all my life for this. I will never be happy here in Sommeil—I’ve always known that. I’ll never stop thinking about what it’s like out there. I am going to figure this out. And until then, I’ll make sure you’re safe here.”

There’s a rap on the door, and a petite girl around Aurora’s age pokes her head into the room.

“Oh, good. Wren, come in,” Heath says.

Wren enters with a tray of soup, a small hunk of meat, and a rough piece of bread. The girl has delicate features, a turned-up nose, and small mouth. She’s ghostly thin, her skin the color of tree bark when starlight hits it. Though her black hair is tied messily and her ears are overly pointy, she is very pretty.

“I know I can trust you to be sure Aurora is comfortable,” Heath says.

“Of course,” Wren replies, her voice soft and lulling. Her thin lips pull down to one side. “Any friend of Heath’s is a friend of mine,” she says to Aurora.

Heath leaves the room, and Aurora can almost feel the chill in his wake.

“You’re cold,” Wren says, setting down the tray. She goes to the hearth and looks for the flint box.

“Thank you.” Aurora notices her fingers fumble. “Are you all right?” she asks the girl.

“Yes. But . . . I wish . . . ,” Wren whispers. “Forgive me for saying . . . I wish you wouldn’t . . . encourage him too much.”

“Heath?”

Wren turns to face Aurora, her eyes big and dark. “No one can be happy if they are always searching. That’s what I think, anyway. If you believe you’re living in a shadow, you will never feel the light. Do you see what I mean?”

Aurora tests her ankle and stands up, wincing only a little.

“Miss! Sit back down!” Wren comes toward her.

“No, no, I’m fine.” Aurora waves her off lightly. “Let me help you. I want to help.”

She approaches her, and even though Aurora has only ever lit a fire a few times, she takes the flint box from Wren’s trembling hands. After a couple of tries, she manages to catch a spark and kneels down to place the lit tinder into the fire. However, something in the fireplace catches her eye. A glimmer.

She gasps. “Wren. Are these . . . jewels in the ashes?” she whispers, nearly dropping the tinder. She scoops up the gleaming stones—a necklace made of pearls separated by tiny rubies. “Why would someone leave these in the fireplace?”

“I’m sorry, miss. The room hasn’t been cleaned. We don’t usually put guests here. We don’t usually have guests at all.”

Inspiration flies into her. “You could trade these, sell them—you could buy food for everyone in Blackthorn!”

Wren sighs, kneeling beside her. She takes the lit tinder and lights a log. “There is no food to be bought,” she replies softly. “We rely on the hunters, like Heath, to bring back meat. We ration the grain, which struggles more to thrive every year that goes by. . . .”

She helps Aurora back to her feet, and both of them step back from the growing flames.

Wren’s light hand on her elbow sends a message through Aurora that overwhelms her with its tenderness. She looks down at the beautiful stones coated in a light layer of ash, which have left black dust in her palm. “But still,” she starts, then trails off.

Aurora would gladly hammer out all of the emeralds and sapphires in her crown to help the people of Sommeil, if she had it here. But perhaps Wren is right that the jewels would do no good. It has never occurred to Aurora to feel embarrassed by who she is. Or worse . . . ashamed. She’s lived a life of tasseled pillows and billowing gowns, while these people suffer.

She traces her fingers over the string of pearls, then slips it into the pocket of her gown as a reminder.

“I’m sorry,” Aurora says now. “I want to help you. And Heath. All of you. I wish I knew what to do.” Her voice has begun to come to her with ease, but the answers have not.