Wrapped in a blanket and sitting at Jack’s huge kitchen table, Sparrow wrote a letter on a piece of blue onionskin paper. It felt weird writing a letter. She had never actually done that—put words on paper to someone else: a salutation, followed by “How are you?” “Doing fine,” and all the other glib things people sent each other. She’d never even had the chance to write home for money. And let’s face it, Sparrow fumed, it was these damn letters that got Sophia—it’s hard to call her by her right name—injured in the first place.
She glanced over to where Sophia lay resting on a small day bed. Her arm was bandaged and secured in a homemade sling. Jack’s a good medic, she thought. At least he seems to know what he’s doing. But Sophia was pale, and Sparrow noticed her breathing was labored.
On the other side of the room, Robin was watching out the window, scanning the backyards and the garden for further signs of attack. Jack was in the kitchen, rattling the pots and then opening and slamming drawers in preparation for cooking. Or maybe just sharpening the knives, Sparrow thought, hearing the soft scree of blade against a hone.
Sparrow read over what she had written so far:
You and your sister Sophia sure have a wacked sense of humor. I know your true names now but I’m not so stupid as to use them here. You can’t believe how many weirdos are out there looking for these letters. Honestly, you guys have no idea about secrecy. Good thing you know nothing about e-mail or Facebook, otherwise the whole mess of my life and Robin’s would be all over cyberspace right now and that skull’s head wouldn’t have needed to attack Sophia. And then I’d be dead. Or worse—bound by blood.
Sparrow bit the end of her pen cap, thinking she should probably explain those last few sentences.
Don’t panic. I guess I should have said that first. Sophia’s all right. Jack and Robin made it to her in time. But that’s why I am writing—to warn you about what’s coming.
What is coming? Thinking about the last few days, all she could understand was that for the first time in her life, all the insanity, the danger, the oddness of her identity were coming together. And the crazier and more dangerous it had become, the more true.
Hawk—or Lankin, as Robin explained—had nearly succeeded in killing her. She shuddered, remembering opening the door, the sting of the elf shot, and then falling. She remembered too the way he’d undressed her, caressed her, and then slapped her hard across the face. She had wanted to scream, to writhe in pain, even fight back when he’d taken the needle to her flesh. But there was nothing she could do, not even weep. The crows had swarmed through the broken glass and flooded into her room. Sophia had broken the spell of binding. But even then the trouble had not ended.
“Be careful,” Sparrow continued . . .
. . . the shit is hitting the fan here and it’s really dangerous. Last night a couple who live in the apartment below mine, just back from their holidays, got attacked by someone right in their apartment. The cops have been and gone. We’re pretty sure they saw the mess upstairs. Probably have it figured for something drug related. Sophia thinks the bad guys were looking for her and maybe me, too. You know already about Lankin. And how we pretty much scooted out of there with just our skins. After the cops went, Sophia realized that she’d left your letters behind. Like I said, you guys don’t know much about keeping secrets. She hustled back there and two seconds after we saw the lights go on in her apartment window, Jack started cursing.
From our window we saw these walking dead guys heading up the back stairs after her. Jack grabbed a rusty pole and Robin took a kitchen knife—I wanted to come but they yelled at me to stay put. I don’t know what happened exactly. I saw Sophia in the window turn and then it went dark as the lamp was knocked over. Jack and Robin must have got there pretty quick because a second later I see those thugs crashing out the window trying to make a quick getaway. One had Jack’s pole in its belly. Only they don’t fall—they fly with huge raggedy wings, snake-necked like vultures. They didn’t have bird heads, though—just human skulls.
Sophia wasn’t hurt too badly. A nasty gash across her left arm. Jack cleaned and stitched it up and has been taking care of her. You’re wrong about him by the way. He’s a handy guy to have around. He won’t let her get up until he’s sure there’s no infection.
So here’s the thing. Get here as quick as you can. Tell the crones Jack’s got a bottle under the bed reserved just for them. It seems he knows their type only too well.
See you soon,
Sparrow
“Sophia, do you want to add anything to the letter?” Sparrow asked, putting down the pen.
“That would be good, thank you.” Groaning, Meteora lifted herself off the couch and shuffled over to the table. Beneath the untidy swath of hair, her face was pale, beads of sweat dotting her upper lip. But she smiled graciously at Sparrow. “Just a few words.”
She leaned over the paper and wrote in slanted, curling letters that drifted like vines across the page.
P.S. Forgive me, dearest Sister. I have let Sparrow write my letter. I am in too much pain right now to sit and give it the thought it needs. Oh, how I wish I could speak to you in Robin’s toy. I dare not let the others know how much the bananachs hurt me. I have so precious little magic in me and they too much. Jack’s cures are working—but they will not work for long. I need you. I will fold this letter until it is small enough to tuck beneath the wren’s left wing. I can only hope she finds you. There is much to tell you, but too dangerous to commit to this page.
Blessed is the mother that bore us and the sister who dwells in my heart.
M
“Will she come in time?” Sparrow asked, watching Meteora’s fingers delicately fold the tissue of onionskin paper until it appeared no thicker than a thin dime.
“Of course she will come,” Meteora answered. “She’s my sister.” She went to the window, gently pushing a vigilant Robin to one side. Opening the window, she gave a low whistle. A small wren, no bigger than a child’s fist, appeared at the ledge and allowed Meteora to tuck the letter beneath his striped wing. She fed him some bread crumbs from her palm and then he was gone, smaller and smaller until he was hardly a pebble in the sky.
“That’s it then,” Meteora said, turning.
Sparrow smiled, envious for a moment of the old woman’s unshakable faith in her sister. She was completely confident that Auntie Em would simply show up at Jack’s house, in a town she’d never seen before. But then, Sparrow thought, she’s traveling by “air” with a couple of crones. And that I can’t wait to see!