I follow the coastal road, trying to ignore the careening sky, the smacking sea, until I see Bly on the far end of the beach. He slips into his cave — the one with the sculptures reaching out of its walls. The one with my bird inside it.

My golden bird — its wings beating to the speed of my own heart.

I have to see it. I have to see the bird. It’s a mark of guilt, but it’s a mark of something else, too. A mark of my voice. A reminder that girls who are broken in their bones can still make something living.

I hate that Bly caged it. But I am grateful, if only in this moment, that he did. Because I can see it again. It hasn’t left me like the others.

I run along the beach, barreling into the greedy cave. Caves are gluttons for darkness. Bly has not lit the lamps. There is only the sound of the sea — distant, waiting — and pattering footsteps: Bly’s gait, so alive in kept-away places.

When I get past puddles and needle-rocks, I see glimmering wings beaming. The light dances with life, and I know it’s a bird — my bird, free of its gustless enclosure. Silently, silently, it’s calling to me.

Figures yawn around me, crooking their fingers and swishing their tails. I ignore them. My bird. My bird. But when I am close — so close I can almost touch it — I flinch, pressing back.

Because a groan racks the cave.

It’s a searing cry — a scream like someone being born. Like someone dying.

My bird flies away from me until it’s only a smudge. I can’t leave the light I made behind. I need to feel its warmth brushing my cheek. I force myself to step forward even though my whole body is trembling.

Eyes and hands. Teeth and claws and hooked beaks.

One step, two, three —

A spark glitters. Bly has struck a slice of hushingstone. He peers at the cave’s wall as if it has a face. “There, there,” he says, my golden bird dancing at his shoulder. “The sky is preparing a place for you.” He moves to the side slightly, gesturing for the little light-winged thing to come closer.

A giant eye has been carved into the wall of the cave. It clicks in its socket, shifting from left to right.

And then looks straight at me.

And blinks.

Eyes and hands. Teeth and claws and hooked beaks —

The creature — the beast — it can only be a beast — groans again, roaring like a tempest come to shatter the sky.

I turn and I run.