Chapter 73
\[Somewhere 6 Years Ago\]
Night pressed down on the winter forest. Everything had gone quiet as if the world itself were holding its breath; even the usual skitter of small animals was absent. The trees stood black against the snow, their bare branches etched into the sky. Above them, the moon rode high and bright and the stars were countless points of cold fire. They made the world look cleaner somehow.
She stood with one hand on the rough bark of a tree, feeling its slow, patient solidity under her palm. The sight of the sky did nothing to soothe the ache inside her; it only steadied her enough to keep her from moving. She wanted, with a simple animal longing, to go back to bed, curl up against her pillows and let herself fall apart until sleep carried her away. But she had a reason to be here, something that would not wait. This was the chance that might save her child; if she backed away now, there might be no second chance.
A sound reached her then—the soft, precise patter of boots on snow. She pulled her hand from the tree and turned. A woman approached across the clearing, moving with a motion that suggested she did not waste energy on anything unnecessary. When the coming figure got close enough, she drew back her hood. Short black hair fanned out, catching the breeze and revealing glowing silver eyes. There was a smile when she saw the tree-side woman, though it didn’t meet her eyes.
“You came,” the black-haired woman said. There was a hint of relief in it but also a note of criticism. “I thought you might change your mind and run.”
The other woman—Lobelia—set her jaw and met the remark without flinching. “There’s nothing I won’t do for my daughter,” she said firmly. Her gaze sharpened as she looked at the woman approaching. The black-haired woman let out a brief laugh and Lobelia’s mouth pressed together. She bit her bottom lip to keep herself from answering in anger.
“You love her,” the black-haired woman said with mock-criticism in her tone. “And you didn’t tell her the truth about where you were going. Lobelia, are you sure this is right? If anything happens, if it harms the child—”
The question was not concern. She wanted the woman not to change her mind. A change at the last minute would ruin the plan. She stepped closer, face suddenly serious. “This is your last chance. Once you take my hand, there’s no going back. Are you certain you want to leave her?”
Lobelia turned her face up toward the sky. For a moment her expression softened so much it looked like relief; a single tear tracked down her cheek. The memory of the child filled her—small hands, a particular way of blinking, the tilt of a head, her outstanding star-sapphire eyes. In the moonlight the stars seemed to mirror the stars in her daughter’s eyes.
Too bad she’d never see them again.
Without hesitating, she reached out and took the offered hand. Her fingers closed around the other’s with a firmness that made the decision irrevocable.
The black-haired woman breathed out. The sound broke apart, and the air between them thickened. Where the woman had stood there came a rope of black, not smoke but something denser, moving like ink stirred into the air and pulled into lines. It twisted and hissed. Lobelia did not flinch. The rope-fog wrapped their joined hands, moving with deliberate purpose. It coiled upward, the sound slipping into something like a low whip-crack as it tightened and swirled.
The world receded into a narrower ring of silver light, everything hummed in her ears, the hush of the real world contrasting with the raw, tight sound the ropes made as they tightened. She looked up and saw a shooting star. Pinch of superstition, or perhaps a last small wish, and she thought of the child’s future—anything that might keep that small life whole.
“Please,” she whispered. The words were rough from cold and sorrow. “Give her someone or people who will love her and give her reason to live. Please find happiness, Sapphire, like he did.”
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Sapphire’s POV
I remembered the night as if it had been a film I could not pause. “You are really going to leave without saying goodbye, Mum? Is that how it’s going to be?” I had called after her, my voice small and shaky. The memory flooded in: my mother at the door, her hand on the handle, her back turned to me. Through the gap of the slightly opened door I could see the night sky and feel the winter wind push itself into the room. Cold bit at my skin, but I was too furious to notice.
I had kept glaring at her back, waiting for a word, any explanation. “Mum, I told you not to leave. Why won’t you just listen to me? I’ll be fine. I can manage. I’ve learnt to hide Zinnia. We’ll be fine. You don’t have to go.” My voice had thinned into pleading, then into anger.
Tears streamed down my face. My teeth clenched and my heart thudded so hard it felt like a second pulse at my throat. I wanted her to turn round, to tell me she was not going, to tell me exactly where she was going and why. I knew she was lying about the destination—I knew her too well for that—and still she said nothing. “Goodbye, my flower.” That was all she said before she walked out.
I had watched her go with disbelief and fury wrapped together. My mind screamed at me to follow, but I stamped to the door instead, slammed it shut, and walked to my room. I slammed that door too. The decision was sharp and hot in me then, and I would carry the weight of it for years.