EPILOGUE

American Goldfinch
(Carduelis tristis)

The morning we left Excelsior, Isabella came to the station to see us off. When the streetcar swung up to the platform and yawned open its door, I hugged Isabella briefly and kissed her cheek. Mother did the same and I heard her whisper a thank-you in Isabella’s ear. Then, as Mother hobbled toward the car, Isabella handed me a package wrapped in brown paper.

“Don’t open it until you’re on your way,” she said. Then she squeezed my shoulder and hesitated a long, painful moment before stepping back. My skin already ached for her, but I steeled myself with a deep breath and turned away. We boarded the streetcar, dropped our tokens into the fare box, and claimed a bench seat. As we sped out down the track, Isabella’s waving form disappeared behind us.

Mother pulled an embroidery hoop out of the traveling case Aunt Rachel had sent and began stitching hearts on a handkerchief. I chuckled. Aunt Rachel had thought of everything. I turned over Isabella’s package and carefully removed the paper.

And there, in my lap, lay a sequined dress with black fringe—just like the oriole dress, but yellow. A goldfinch dress. My goldfinch dress, apparently. I blinked away the tears that gathered in my eyes. On a note pinned to the dress, Isabella had written, “You are no sparrow. I hope you know that now, my bright, beautiful Garnet. Have courage and you will fly.”

I will, I thought, as we soared across the landscape—toward home, and school, and the one life that was mine to live. I will.