Her arm.
She could smell her own blood. Or maybe—
Her dad. But—
It was not his blood. He had flown. On black wings, beyond their reach.
The stench that hung in the air coated the insides of her nostrils, her throat, her lungs. It was her own death she breathed, the copper tang of her own makings, the fine powder of her bones, blown to dust.
She couldn’t lose any of them. Jimmy. Juby. Merrily.
“Don’t,” she gasped. The scene around her receded, all the sharp lines blurring, and when she woke again, Merrily had her cheek against her forehead. Merrily, her sister.
Another one, another sister somewhere, Merrily was saying.
“She’s tall,” Alice said, hoarse. Three thin-wristed women like something from Greek myth. The three graces. Or the three furies, she couldn’t remember. She sucked in her breath from the pain.
“Her pants are too short,” Merrily said.
Alice wanted to laugh, though it would hurt to laugh. And to cry. She was crying. Her dad. She could not think of him any other way.
“He flew,” she said. “He flew.”
“What?” Merrily, shaking against her. “Did he? Gonzo, help us. I can’t—”
Alice cried. For her mother, both of her mothers, and what they might have been. And for Rick. Her father. To trade one for the other, and lose both, all. Two mothers to grieve, two fathers gone.
Merrily curled around her, a barrier.
In the swap, one family for another, Alice had gained only Merrily. She didn’t know. Was it enough?
Alice pressed herself into the warm curve of Merrily’s arm. Her teeth chattered. She could hear the slow beat of wings, slow, slower. Was it dark? Merrily was her sunshine.
“Are you cold?” Merrily said.
“I’m scared,” she whispered. Of losing you.
Hands reached in. “Wait! Alice, I—you’re going to be fine.” Merrily’s breath on her neck. “I mean, you’re going to be—”
She flew on black wings.