Water & Storm Country

It was all taken from her. No, not taken.Ripped from her little hands. Stolen from her.

By my father.

At that moment, something is unlocked in thememory of my mother’s death. She still falls; I still can’t saveher, can’t hold on. I still fail her. But she says something,something I’ve never heard her say in any of my dreams, where all Isaw was her terror and my failure and my father’sdisappointment.

“Not your fault,” she says.

There’s a sharp pinch on my arm and I can seeagain, not because I’ve opened my eyes—which were never closed—butbecause the memory is gone, and I’m dangling in midair, not holdingthe needle, not holding the ropes, not holding anything. Jade’shand is clamped on my arm, gripping me, bruising my flesh with thestrength of her fingers.

“Huck,” she says, “I can’t hold you up allday. You’re heavier than tughide.”

Astonished, I curl my empty fingers around arope, pull myself to an upright position. “Was I…”

“Falling? Yeah. You just let go and would’vedone a bird dive onto the decks if I didn’t grab you.” There’s nopride in her voice, no praise-seeking. Just facts.

“You saved my life,” I say.

“And you lied to save mine,” she says.

(And killed. It’s in her eyes, but thankfullyshe doesn’t say it.)

“Thank you,” I say, but she’s already back tostitching. Though I can tell one of her eyes is still watching me,just in case I let go again.

“Fire country is hot and barren anddangerous,” she says, as if we’re just continuing our conversationfrom before. “And beautiful and perfect,” she adds.

“Did you have any brothers or sisters?” Iask.

“I have two sisters,” she says. “Botholder. Skye and Siena. They’re…amazing.” Her voice is full of griton the last word, like it almost didn’t make it out of her throat.“At least they were…I think. It’s hard to remember. It was sixyears ago and I was so young.”

I finish threading my corner and beginworking my way toward her, giving her time to compose herself andher thoughts, hoping she’ll continue.

Time passes like wispy clouds, silent andthin and full of imagined images.

Our threading fingers get closer and closerand still we’re silent. The air in my lungs refuses to satisfy me,leaving me short of breath, like I’ve just run a long way. I stareat my fingers, focusing on each pass of the needle, careful not toprick myself.

Closer.

And closer.

And then her hand brushes mine and it’s likelightning against my skin.

She looks at me, but I can only stare at myfingers. She breaks the thread from her needle and hands me theend, careful not to let us touch again. When she begins working onanother corner I breathe a relieved sigh and knot my thread withhers.

When I start working on the fourth and finalcorner, I can still feel the sensation of our hands touching, but Itry to keep my fingers steady.

“What happened when you almost fell?” Jadeasks, her question coming like a random yellow cloud in a perfectlyred sky.

Oh…that. “I was just daydreaming,” Isay, keeping my voice low, even though no one below could possiblyhear us.

“About your mother?” she says and my breathcatches. How could she know?

I’m still trying to figure out how torespond, when she says, “I daydream about my family all the time. Idon’t know if they’re dead or alive or happy or sad, but I picturethem as alive and happy. My sisters miss me something awful, ofcourse, but they’re still happy.”

“Well, I know my mother’s dead,” I say.

“I remember,” she says, and for some reasonI’m surprised, although I shouldn’t be. “It’s all anyone talkedabout when it happened. Some say your father pushed her over, somesay it was you, some say it was an accident.” I flinch and her eyesjerk to meet mine. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t betalking about any of this.”

I shake my head. “It’s okay. I didn’t pushher, but it was my fault,” I say, hearing my mother’s words—“Notyour fault”—in my new memory. Is it real or did I invent it?

“I’m sorry,” she says again.

“Thank you.”

We work our way from corner to corner, notstopping until we meet in the middle again. This time I’m carefulnot to let us touch as we approach. I tie it off and we work on thelast two edges, ignoring the lunch bell in our sudden haste tofinish the job.

When the patch is firmly in place, we dangleside by side on the rope bridge, our legs hanging through it,flexing our overworked fingers.

“I smuggled some extra bread from breakfast,”Jade says, reaching inside her pocket and sliding out a smallishloaf. She tears it in half and hands me the smaller piece. I offerher some water from the container hanging from my belt. We eat anddrink until it’s gone.

The question that ended our conversation thelast time rolls around my mouth, hot and warming my cheeks from theinside out. I won’t ask it again. I won’t. But what if she saysyes? What if mending the tear was enough to mend whatever wasbroken when she slid down the mast and stopped speaking to me?

“Want to see the crow’s nest?” I blurtout.

She frowns. I’ve done it again. Spoiledthings. Because she can’t see the crow’s nest. The bilge aren’tallowed up there. But if a lieutenant orders her to go, then surelythe rules don’t apply, do they?

I rephrase. “Go to the crow’s nest.”

Her frown softens and she almost laughs. “Youcan’t tell me what to do.”

I smile, too. “Of course I can. I’m alieutenant.”

“You’re a wooloo boy.”

It should sting, but it doesn’t, not when herlips are curled like that. “So you’ll disobey a direct order fromthis wooloo boy?” I ask.

“I could,” she says. “But I won’t. Not thistime anyway. But you’ll have to lead so it’s clear from below thatit’s your idea.”

I start to climb, raising my smile to thesun.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Sadie

Father is asleepwhen I return home. His breathing is loud and rumbling, somethingthat would normally a

I’ve made a grave mistake.

For years I’ve treated him with frustrationand disrespect at best, contempt and white-hot anger at worst. Andhe wasn’t to blame. Wasn’t a coward at all. Oh, no, no, no, he wasthe exact opposite. His every action was that of a hero, albeit afailed one.

I hate to wake him but I must.

I nudge his shoulder and he stirs. “Father,”I say.

His eyes flicker open, blinking awaymoisture. “Sadie,” he says, his tone infused with such joy andlove, despite all that I’ve done, how poorly I’ve treated him. Do Ideserve him?

You needed to know. Now more thanever. What did Gard mean by that?

“Father, I know,” I say and he closes hiseyes, cringes. Opens them slowly, almost mournfully.

I wait for him to speak but he just watchesme. Will he withhold the truth from me even now?

“You tried to save Paw,” I say. “Don’t denyit—Gard told me.” He nods. “You tried to stop Mother from riding.”Another nod, almost imperceptible. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shakes his head. “I—I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want you to…” He bites his lip,refuses to meet my gaze.

“Father,” I say, reaching forward to pull hischin back in line with mine. “Why was I already in the tent and Pawnot? I remember some things. We were playing together, Paw and I.How did I make it back and not him? Why am I alive and not him?” Myvoice cracks and all I want is to let the waterfall of tears out ofmy eyes, but I blink and force them back. Holding them back hurts,but I’m still a Rider.

“Sadie, I’m—I’m dying.” His words are sounexpected, so fierce, so wrong, that I shrink back againstthem.

“What? No, you’re—you’re the only one who’snot.” Does he mean dying inside because he can’t tell me the truth?Does he mean emotionally dying after losing my mother?