“How much for the wings?” Étienne asked.
“Are you mad? Gargouille wings will heal anything and bring a king’s ransom. Even the duke will have to scrape his coins together for this one. Too rich for paysan blood like you.”
“What about the girl?”
“You mean the gargouille? Worth just as much. They grow back their wings, you know?”
Étienne nodded understanding. “A never-ending supply. You’re a wise and lucky man, sir, to have made such a catch.” Her wings would not grow back, and Étienne knew it. Nor did they hold magical healing powers for the landwalkers. Their powers ebbed as soon as they were cut away. They were worthless decaying flesh now. She knew Étienne only played along, pretending to intently listen to Frans spout the myths that had followed them, and then Frans embellished even those as he went, soaking in the rapt attention of the crowd that closed in around him.
His lies were nothing she hadn’t heard before. There had always been stories about their kind, fearful stories, none of them true. The gargouilles were as human as anyone else. They lived among the landwalkers and always had, only different in their own way as a redhead is from a blonde, as odd as a sixtoed baby, as rare as an albino. The rarity was what grieved her and where she had let her clan down. Their numbers were dwindling. They had been hunted for their wings for centuries, becoming like anyone else once their wings were cut.
The irony was that gargouille blood ran through the land-walkers too—only a trace from some long-ago mutual ancestor, but enough to make them take flight in their dreams, to remember the lift, the wind, the freedom and exhilaration of not being bound to this world, to remember the fluttering of hair on currents, the taut stretch of wing and chest, the longing to soar again once their feet touched land, the bitterness when their eyes opened and their flight was nothing more than a trick of sleep. The landwalkers looked at the gargouilles and saw their dreams and unfulfilled desires. They looked at them and saw what they secretly wanted to be, and then despised them for it.
“How long before the wings grow back?” Étienne asked Frans, his voice laced with doubt as he deliberately surveyed her back, which showed no signs of emerging wings.
Frans rubbed his bristled cheek. “Not sure exactly. A week, maybe two.”
“Perhaps with nourishment they might grow faster?” Étienne suggested.
Frans weighed this thought and turned to Giselle. “What do you eat, beast?”
Giselle lifted her gaze to meet Frans. She surveyed his protruding belly and his rotten teeth. “I drink the tears of angels and share the bread of saints.”
There were gasps and mumblings in the crowd at the sacrilege. Frans stood silently, perplexed. It was the first question he had asked her and he didn’t understand her answer. He finally laughed it off and threw her a piece of hard barley bread, and shoved a stein of water into the cart through the bars, before going back to telling his stories.
Giselle gulped the water, the overflow dribbling down her cheeks. She wiped the drips away with the back of her hand. The tears of angels give me flight, she thought. The gargouilles had their own legends too. Her grandmother had passed them on to her as all gargouilles were bound to do, stories that explained how they came to be who they were, where their kind diverged from those married to foot and ground, stories that elevated them and gave them a reason to hold their heads high. Her grandmother told her that they once flew with the angels; they were the guardians of the sky; they were the watchers who knew and made right. They were blessed with their velvet wings because they were better. They were chosen. When the angels retreated to the heavens, the gargouilles became the angels of the night. Those were the stories Giselle wanted to believe.
One thing she knew for certain: they had to preserve their heritage and their kind because they were precious few. There were of course, a few scattered rogue gargouilles who lived alone among the landwalkers, assuming their way of life, but even their identities were unknown to the clans. “As useless as a harp with no strings,” her mother said of them. Only the clans still preserved the work of the angels. They were all that mattered, and there were only fourteen left in Giselle’s clan. Étienne, he came from the north. He was to be a match for Bridet, but the minute his eyes met Giselle’s, they both knew. Bridet knew.
He came to visit Giselle often. Her mother was always spare of words, so Étienne would retell Giselle the stories of old, and he told them like no one else she had ever heard, captivating her with every sentence. They flew in the night, circling with stars and moon, diving through treetop and forest, too dark and too fast to be seen as more than a passing shadow, a whoosh of air, a flicker of starlight, and they were gone. And then one night by a sliver of orange moon, they walked. Giselle unfolded her wings, felt the paper-thin but steely strength of their flesh, Étienne’s fingers running along the velvet crest of her wings, his lips sliding down her throat. His wings snapped outward, wrapped her in their warmth. His kisses were gentle and tender, always waiting for her answer. And her answer was always yes. Yes.
The next day she knew it before he said it. She knew what was coming as they walked together in the meadow, their wings carefully hidden away in the daylight. She knew the words on the edge of his lips because some things are just known—they don’t have to be said, but he said them anyway. “I love you, Giselle. I love you. I choose you.”
“And I choose you back, Étienne.”
The match was made. It was complete except for the celebrations with their families. He left to tell his parents in the north. And Giselle danced by daylight in the meadow. Danced, and sang. And she spread her wings without a care for the world or who might be watching.
I choose you back.
“She only looks like a simple peasant girl. Are you sure she’s a gargouille?”
“Look at the wings, boy! I cut them from her myself—and she put up a hellish struggle!”
Étienne’s jaw clenched. His shoulders lurched. Giselle gasped, terrified that Étienne would reveal himself and suffer her same fate. “There are too many!” she cried. “Too many! Leave! Go!”
Étienne pulled his shoulders back, his face softening at her distress, and Giselle sobbed in relief.
“Quiet, beast!” Frans yelled. “These good people want to look, and look they will!”
The crowd rumbled approval. A few patted him on the back, eager to show their own bravery by stepping closer to the beast. Still others offered to buy him a meal and brew at the tavern. Frans rubbed his chin wistfully. It had been a long ride. His barley bread was brick-hard and dry, and his small wedge of cheese was nearly gone. A hot meal would be welcome, maybe even a bit of meat or smoked eel with some porridge, and then he could feed the beast the remainder of his barley bread. A few moments ago was the first time he had fed her since he caught her, and she was looking weak, with no sign of new wings yet. A dead, wingless gargouille would not be worth nearly as much to the duke as a live, healthy one. But he eyed his treasure on top of the cart. Going into the tavern was too big a risk to take. “I’ll have my meal out here.”
Several villagers rushed to the tavern to bring their honored guest some food, and the rest of the crowd dwindled, eager to get home to their own suppers and their twilight chores, possibly more mindful than usual of the darkening sky and the creatures that might inhabit it.
Frans turned to Étienne, who was brave enough to step close to the cart and was broad-shouldered and a head taller than most in the crowd. Frans flipped him a coin, which Étienne easily caught. “I’m going over there to rest and eat. Two more of those coins for you if you wait here and see that no one touches the cart—or beast.” In this village three coins was easily a day’s wages. Étienne properly smiled and nodded. “And mind you,” Frans added, wagging his finger, “I’ll still be watching! I expect diligence for those coins!”
“Of course,” Étienne answered.
Frans walked some distance away and settled against the stone wall of the tavern to view the cart from a more comfortable position and await the meal the villagers were bringing him. A half dozen lingered with him, eager to hear more stories about distant lands, since by now Frans had expanded how far he had traveled and the adventures he had seen.