The day the first wave of Star Children returned to the Protectorate, the former Sisters threw open the windows of the hospital.
The Sorrow Eater by now looked as old as dust. Her skin crinkled over her bones like old paper. Her eyes were sightless and hollow. “Close the window,” she rasped. “I can’t bear to hear it.”
“Leave it open,” Xan whispered. “I can’t bear not to.”
Xan, too, was a dry husk. She hardly breathed. Any moment now, Luna thought as she sat by Xan’s side, holding her tiny hand, as light as feathers.
The Sisters left the windows open wide. Cries of joy wafted into the room. The Sorrow Eater cried out in pain. Xan sighed with happiness. Luna gently squeezed her hand.
“I love you, Grandmama.”
“I know, darling,” Xan wheezed. “I love . . .”
And she drifted away, loving everything.
47.
In Which Glerk Goes on a Journey, and Leaves a Poem Behind
Later that night, the room was quiet and utterly still. Fyrian had ceased his howling at the foot of the Tower and had gone to sob and sleep in the garden; Luna had returned to the open arms of her mother, and those of Antain and Ethyne—another odd, beloved family for an odd, beloved girl. Perhaps she would sleep in the room with her mother. Perhaps she would curl up outside with her dragon and her crow. Perhaps her world was larger than it was before—as it is for children when they are no longer children. Things had become as they should be, Glerk thought. He pressed his four hands to his heart for a moment, then slipped into the shadows and returned to Xan’s side.
It was time to go. And he was ready.
Her eyes were closed. Her mouth was open. She did not breathe. She was dust and stalk and stillness. The stuff of Xan was there, but the spark was not.
There was no moon, but the stars were bright. Brighter than normal. Glerk gathered the light in his hands. He wound the strands together, weaving them into a bright, shimmering quilt. He wrapped them around the old woman and lifted her to his chest.
She opened her eyes.
“Why, Glerk,” she said. She looked around. The room was quiet, except for the creaking of frogs. It was cold, except for the heat of mud underneath. It was dark, except for the shine of the sun on the reeds, and the shimmer of the Bog under the sky.
“Where are we?” she asked.
She was an old woman. She was a girl. She was somewhere in between. She was all of those things at once.
Glerk smiled. “In the beginning, there was the Bog. And the Bog covered the world and the Bog was the world and the world was the Bog.”
Xan sighed. “I know this story.”
“But the Bog was lonely. It wanted a world. It wanted eyes with which to see the world. It wanted a strong back with which to carry itself from place to place. It wanted legs to walk and hands to touch and a mouth that could sing. And so the Bog was a Beast and the Beast was the Bog. And then the Beast sang the world into being. And the world and the Beast and the Bog were all of one substance, and they were all bound by infinite love.”
“Are you taking me to the Bog, Glerk?” Xan asked. She pulled herself from his embrace and stood on her own two feet.
“It’s all the same. Don’t you see? The Beast, the Bog, the Poem, the Poet, the world. They all love you. They’ve loved you this whole time. Will you come with me?”
And Xan took Glerk’s hand, and they turned their faces toward the endless Bog, and began walking. They didn’t look back.
The next day, Luna and her mother made the long walk to the Tower, up the stairs, and to that small room to gather the last of Xan’s things, and to prepare her body for her last journey to the ground. Adara wound her arm around Luna’s shoulder, an antidote to sorrow. Luna stepped out of her mother’s protective embrace, grabbing Adara’s hand instead. And together they opened the door.
The former Sisters were waiting for them in the empty room. “We don’t know what happened,” they said, their eyes bright with tears. The bed was empty, and cold. There was no sign of Xan anywhere.
Luna felt her heart go numb. She looked at her mother, who had the same eyes. The same mark on the brow. There is no love without loss, she thought. My mother knows this. Now I know it, too. Her mother gave her hand a tender squeeze and pressed her lips against the girl’s black hair. Luna sat on the bed, but she did not cry. Instead, her hand drifted to the bed, where she found a piece of paper tucked just under the pillow.
“The heart is built of starlight
And time.
A pinprick of longing lost in the dark.
An unbroken chord linking the Infinite to the Infinite.
My heart wishes upon your heart and the wish is granted.
Meanwhile the world spins.
Meanwhile the universe expands.
Meanwhile the mystery of love reveals itself,
again and again, in the mystery of you.
I have gone.
I will return.
Glerk”
Luna dried her eyes and folded the poem into the shape of a swallow. It sat motionless in her hand. She went outside, leaving her mother behind. The sun was just beginning to rise. The sky was pink and orange and dark blue. Somewhere, a monster and a witch wandered the world. And it was good, she decided. It was very, very good.
The wings of the paper swallow began to shiver. They opened. They beat. The swallow tilted its head toward the girl.
“It’s all right,” she said. Her throat hurt. Her chest hurt. Love hurt. So why was she happy? “The world is good. Go see it.”
And the bird leaped into the sky and flew away.
48.
In Which a Final Story Is Told
Yes.
There is a witch in the woods.
Well, of course there is a witch. She came round the house just yesterday. You’ve seen her, I’ve seen her, we’ve all seen her.
Well, of course she doesn’t just advertise her witchiness. It would be rude. What a thing to say!
She turned magic when she was just a baby. Another witch, an ancient witch, filled her to bursting with more power than she knew what to do with. And the magic flowed and flowed from the old witch into the new, the way water flows down the mountain. That’s what happens when a witch claims someone as her own—someone to be protected above all else. The magic flows and flows until there is no more left to give.
That’s how our Witch claimed us. The whole Protectorate. We are hers and she is ours. Her magic blesses us and all that we see. It blesses the farms and the orchards and the gardens. It blesses the Bog and the Forest and even the Volcano. It blesses us all equally. This is why the people of the Protectorate are healthy and hale and shining. This is why our children are rosy-cheeked and clever. This is why we have happiness in abundance.
Once upon a time, the Witch received a poem from the Beast of the Bog. Perhaps it was the poem that made the world. Perhaps it was the poem that will end it. Perhaps it is something else entirely. All I know is that the Witch keeps it safe in a locket under her cloak. She belongs to us, but one day her magic will fade and she will wander back into the Bog and we won’t have a witch anymore. Only stories. Perhaps she will find the Beast. Or become the Beast. Or become the Bog. Or become a Poem. Or become the world. They are all the same thing, you know.
Acknowledgments
Writing a book is lonely. No one writes a book alone. These things sound incongruous, but both are true. Every day, I sat at my desk by myself, wrestling with dead wizards and sorrow eaters and ruined castles and impertinent eleven-year-olds and swamp monsters who should know better. Some days this work was easy. Most days it was hard. These struggles were mine alone—but I had help. Here are the people who helped me:
Anne Ursu—idea midwife, calmer-downer, and salve of my soul.
The Black Sheep—Bryan Bliss, Steve Brezenoff, Jodi Chromey, Karlyn Coleman, Christopher Lincoln, and Kurtis Scaletta. You know why.