Timon crouches on Declan’s other side, rocking back and forth on his heels as he whispers, “Do you think he can hear us?”
“Maybe,” I say, hoping he can, hoping his spirit is close, staying in reach. “Best to let him know his friends are here, right? Just in case.”
Timon nods, wrapping his arms around his bent knees. “How do you know what to do?”
“One night my…” I trail off, stopping myself before I say something I can’t explain. “I once had a friend who was hurt by a stone thrown from a window. Another friend taught me how to check for injuries and set a broken bone.”
I leave out the part about only needing to keep Wig alive and in minimal pain for the daylight hours. As soon as night fell and Mother’s magic summoned him back to work, he was able to shift forms and heal his injuries.
Healing is available to all in her service. It's one of the few benefits of being a witch’s slave.
The thought pricks at my brain, giving me hope.
If Declan is a planting, there could be a way to save him, even if he’s seriously injured. If he’s hers, then surely Mother will summon him to work tomorrow night. Now that he’s out from under the protection of his father’s spells, she should be able to sense his presence. We’re all strands of silk in her web. When any one of us vibrates, the spider sitting at the center feels it.
A darker thought follows the first—serving my mother’s whims might be a fate worse than death, especially if she forces him to work magic like mine—but I push it away. I need Declan to live, and I will do whatever it takes to make that happen. Even if it means reaching out to the mother I’ve shunned for so long I can scarcely remember the angles of her face.
I will give Declan life, even if it’s a nightmare’s life. And then, if he can’t bear the weight of a planting’s nightly work…Well, at least it will be his choice, not the result of some tragic accident.
As I gently squeeze Declan’s arms and legs, checking for broken bones, I beg the universe for mercy.
Please let this be an accident.
Please let my suspicions be wrong.
Please let Wig and Poke have nothing to do with this.
Because if my oldest, dearest friends tried to kill Declan… If they did this, knowing how much I care about him, knowing that I only lived to see them again because he braved the ocean to fetch me…
I don’t know what I’ll do.
But I suspect it will be the worst thing I’ve ever done.
Chapter Nineteen
Declan
I tumble down, down, down, spiraling through shadows until I hit the bottom of my mind with a splintering crack that shakes me to my core.
I land sprawled on my stomach, elbows and knees throbbing from the impact, gasping and groaning as my hands flinch away from the biting cold floor beneath me.
But this isn’t a floor.
And it isn’t the bottom…
No sooner has the realization hit than the ice beneath me shatters and drops me into…nothing.
I’m floating, but not in water.
In air.
No, not air… When I part my lips and will my lungs to expand, nothing happens, which is troubling, but not panic-inducing. I don’t seem to need air here.
Wherever here is.
At first, it seems a vast, dark void, but as my eyes adjust to the blackness, I make out tiny pinpricks of light, some above me and some below. And far to my right is a glowing orange sphere. It’s the only meaningful source of light and too distant for its rays to reach me, but I can still see my outstretched arms and count the fingers on my softly glowing hands.
I’m like one of those frogs that live in caves, the ones who have lived in the shadows for so long that they’ve learned to glow in the dark.
Caves…
The word picks at a loose thread in my mind, but before I can pull up the memory, something tugs on my right leg. Then my left. Then my right again.
I look down, seeing nothing but more blackness below, and then suddenly I’m plummeting through the soundless, airless void.
Most unnerving is the lack of wind against my skin. I should be feeling the zoom rushing through my hair, rustling the hairs on my arms. Falling without wind is like eating without smelling—alien and strange.
It quickly kills my appetite for more of this dream.
I will myself to wake up, to open my eyes and banish this vision to whatever dusty corner dreams retreat to, but the dragging at my ankles continues.
It’s relentless, and so purposeful I’m beginning to doubt this is a dream at all. Then I touch down on the softest ground I’ve ever felt and air whooshes back into my lungs.