In Alma’s room, there was a lovely white wooden bed that she had spent too many nights lying awake in, and recently quite a few nights not lying in at all. In Alma’s room, there was a lovely white wooden desk with a collection of Old Haven feathers hanging above. In Alma’s room, there was a lovely white wooden bookshelf filled with books with Old Haven flowers pressed inside and a collection of Old Haven rocks and three jars.
A jar of springwater.
A jar with a windmill.
A jar with a dirt-coated rock.
Alma sat on that lovely white wooden bed after Dustin had left. She held the fourth jar as she watched the other three, and she listened to the fearful thoughts that filled her mind.
Now that they know the truth about you, Alma’s mind said, your parents will never trust you again.
Now that the quest is over, her mind said, you won’t have friends anymore.
And worst of all, her mind said, you failed. You didn’t get the fire. You didn’t save the Starling. Your quintessence is gone, gone, gone.
And there’s nothing to be done.
Alma sat and watched and listened and listened and listened.
But then she lifted the quintescope to her eye.
The springwater glistened. The rock gleamed. The glimmering wind began to blow hard and strong, spinning the windmill faster and faster and faster.
For months, Alma had felt like a failure, like a disappointment. For months, she had felt like a stranger to herself, unknown and unknowable, empty and lost. For months, she had felt like she was far from home.
Then she had done something. She had taken the flyer. She had joined the club. She had asked for Hugo’s help. She had followed Shirin into the woods. She had faced an enemy who was becoming a friend. She had connected to a Starling who seemed so much like herself, afraid and alone and hidden.
Time and time again, Alma had taken risks. She had left her safe places and gone out into the world.
And her light had grown and grown and grown.
Her parents still loved her, and they wanted to help her. Shirin and Hugo believed in her. And Dustin, Dustin had said that she was shining.
She didn’t feel like it. She didn’t feel like she was shining at all.
But that didn’t mean she wasn’t.
She had been so sure she had failed, but how did she know? What if she could still get the fire? What if the Starling was still out there? What if she could still be saved?
She can’t be saved, her mind said. You can’t be saved. There’s nothing to be done.
“For the last time,” Alma said out loud. “Be quiet.”
She turned the quintescope to the window.
The quintessence that had zigzagged and spiraled through the entire Preserve was gone now. The only gold path that Alma could see was the one that led from the crater into the woods. And the gold still ended in that same place, in the middle of the untended farmland near the silo.
Alma fixed her gaze on the point where the trail left off. If the light was bright there, then the Starling must have come that way recently. She must have returned there again and again. But why? Where was she going?
Alma moved the quintescope, scanning the field, searching for some sign, some light—
Until she saw it.
Something new that hadn’t been there before. A slight glimmer next to an opening at the top of the silo. A fresh streak of quintessence.
Alma remembered how the Starling had seemed to disappear the night she had chased her, vanishing into thin air. And she remembered how the Starling had flown that night on the mountain, leaping into the sky, high, high up.
A clap of thunder startled her from her thoughts. The sound was nearby, not too far from the fields she was watching.
And suddenly, Alma knew what she had to do.
She got out of bed.
She loaded the fire jar and the jar of water and the jar of earth and the jar of wind into her backpack.
She put on her coat.
She took her flashlight and the quintescope.
She was going to gather the last element, her element.
And she was going to save the Starling.