Page 9 of May: Bloom & Bane

“She will not be going anywhere,” I growl. “And the only place you will be going is where the mealworms feed upon your flesh.”

I finish patting the fresh mound of dirt at the edge of the willow’s reach—far enough away that their wickedness won’t touch her peonies, close enough that the roots can do their work.

Droot hops onto the mound, his tiny cottontail wiggling as he looks down at the soil. Sage is the Big Shadow now, he chirps. The mealworms will be very happy.

Shadow? I wonder what he meant by that.

The thorns retreat back into my skin.

“They were monsters, Droot,” I whisper, my voice thick with a protective fury. “They looked at her life and saw something to be stolen.”

I glance back at the glass box, watching the soft rise and fall of her chest. Something in my heart gives a painful tug.

“They will never be able to hurt another woman again,” I say.

“Sleep well, luváel,” I whisper. (My love) “The real monsters can’t reach you here.”

Day 52: The mud from the storm has finally dried into a fine, grey dust. I’ve spent the morning polishing the glass with the softest willow leaves I could find. Droot is upset because Lunch won’t play tag with him. But he found a shiny pebble that he said looks like you. He says it needs to go on top of your glass. I told him we could put it on the corner of your plinth… so we compromised and put it on the glass.

Day 68: I tried to sing to you today. My voice sounds more like grinding stones than a melody.

The orange peonies all lean toward the glass at once. I think they can hear me.

I think you can hear me.

Day 81: The Great Heat is finally breaking. A cool breeze slips through the willow branches this evening, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and turning leaves.

I watch a single copper curl shift against her forehead. It’s the first time I’ve seen her move since her eyelids twitched the day I found her. I don’t sleep at all; I just watch her, waiting for it to happen again.

Day 95: The peonies are so heavy with petals they’re starting to bow their heads. I spent the afternoon weaving a lattice of thin vines to prop them up so they can stay close to you.

The flowers want to see the sun, Droot chirps, tucking a fallen orange petal behind his ear.

I don’t blame them.

CHAPTER 5

liar-sage

Day 100

Icarve the heading deep into the stone.

One hundred days of being your shade. One hundred days of this incessant tug in my chest.

The heat of summer has finally surrendered. The wind no longer carries the scent of scorched earth and pollen. It smells like crisp air and the sweetness of falling leaves.

The peonies have transitioned from an orange flame to a deep, metallic bronze. They stand like little soldiers around the plinth, their petals crisping at the edges. My wings are following their lead. The vibrant green membranes have begun to fade into a deep, earthy gold. The veins of light within are pulsing a bit slower.

I look more like a fall oak than a living male now.

Sage is turning into a tree, Droot chirps, shivering as he huddles in the crook of my neck. Everything is going to sleep, Sage. Does The Sun sleep in the cold, too?

“She doesn’t feel the cold, Droot,” I whisper, draping my wings a little closer to the crystal. “I’m the one who feels it for her.”

Day 109:

Droot has spent the last three days frantically gathering treasures for the transition. He’s currently trying to wedge a particularly bright red maple leaf into the crack of the glass lid.