Page 62 of May: Bloom & Bane

“Is it that obvious?”

“Your head is tilted, Saevúra.” He gives me a sad smile.

I look back at my canvas and start painting little iridescent snowflakes.

“I think I remind him of someone.”

Sage is quiet for a long moment. “I felt it too.”

The brush moves before I know where it’s going. Soft strokes at first, building a room I’ve never seen. Aged wood walls and a window with frost at the edges. Slowly, a small shape emerges, sleeping in a curled little pile. Safe in the way only very new things are before the world has time to reach them.

Droot hops up onto the table beside me, his light a curious amber. His nose twitches as he studies the painting.

That is a very small beastie, he chirps.

“It’s a baby,” I whisper.

Yes, a baby beastie, he pulses again. But whose?

“What a good question, Droot. I wish I knew the answer.”

My brush keeps moving. Beyond the frosted glass of the window, a large form begins to take shape. I add the details without understanding them. Silver bleeds through the seams of iron.

I set the brush down, and the painting stares back at me.

“Sage, come look at this.” I glance down at my paint-stained fingers, colors I don’t even remember choosing covering my skin. “I think… I know her.”

He runs his claws through my hair. “Know who?”

“That baby.” I point to the tiny beastie. “Something in my soul recognizes her.”

“Eden, the Horsemen lured you with the broken bird… do you think this could be another trick?”

“This isn’t a trick. I wanted to help the bird. I need to find this baby.”

Droot lets out a low, mournful pulse of blue light. The suntrap is getting cold. The Big Bird is leaking sadness.

“Why is The Big Bird sad?” I murmur. “Is it because of the painting?”

“No, Saevúra,” he says softly, stepping behind me. His large hand gently closes over mine, taking the paintbrush from my fingers and setting it down beside the palette. “I’m not sad. The lesson just messed with my head a bit.”

His wings swing forward, folding around us both like a silky green curtain, shutting out the rest of the kitchen.

Droot gives an offended chirp.

He turns me in his arms until I’m facing him. His hands slide up my waist, the heat of his palms soaking through the thin fabric of my dress the whole way. He cups my cheek, his long fingers framing my face.

“See,” he breathes against my lips. “Not sad.”

Nook lets out a low rumble that sounds eerily similar to a purr, and the fireplace roars to life. Orange light dances across the sharp line of his jaw.

“Can I show you something?” he rasps.

“What kind of something?”

His fingertips trail down my neck, brushing over my collarbone, leaving a faint, tingling path of pollen in their wake.

“Something I’ve never shown anyone,” he says softly. “Something that only exists because of you.”