Chapter Seventy-Eight. Daye
Daye
The day before, it seemed like there had been feathers everywhere Daye looked. Now, there wasn’t a feather in sight. Even after hours of searching, only twelve feathers nestled in her pocket. Not nearly enough.
The blue jay left to look for feathers in old nests, and Daye joined him, climbing the tallest beech tree, where an owl had nested last summer. Between the woven sticks of the nest, she found two dozen feathers, brown and small and stiff with age. Enough for a shin. A leg, maybe.
At this rate, it’d take her days to collect enough feathers. Too long.
A faint, familiar sound blew with the breeze.
Breathless, Daye climbed a few more branches, to the very top of the tree.
From here, she could see the border, as well as the land beyond it: a winter wonderland, sparkling white and red under a sunset that, for Daye, was still hours away.
The river had frozen solid. Far in the distance, she could just see the sparkle of candles in the village’s windows.
On the wind, the faintest trace of carols drifted her way, together with the scent of holly and snow.
It must be Saint Winebald’s Day today. Which meant it was December 18. Which meant time kept blowing away from her, fleeing faster than she could catch.
She remembered that circle on the calendar, marking the day after Saint Winebald’s Day. The date of Rory’s return.
She didn’t have days.
Tomorrow. Rory would be here tomorrow.
She’d never make it in time.
“No.” She collapsed on the branch she was standing on, hugging her knees to her chest. “No, no, no.”
It did hurt worse, letting herself hope and having that hope snatched away. Just as she knew it would.
She waited for the familiar stilling to slip over her, for the sleepiness of inertia to engulf her bit by bit, until the world was a distant thing. Instead, she felt like a hundred bees had taken residence inside her, buzzing too loud to think, too fast to hold still.
Frantic, she climbed back down to the nest, desperately digging through the matted straw.
“What are you looking for?” A chickadee landed beside her, poking a protruding twig with its beak.
“Feathers,” Daye gasped. “I’m looking for feathers. Please.” Did she say it to the chickadee? To herself? To the hum of no and please and out that had taken residence in her branch-bones?
“I can find feathers,” the chickadee said. It hopped to the side of the nest and plucked a small feather that was hidden underneath it. “Here,” it trilled, “feather, feather, feather.”
It preened, then took flight, disappearing in the branches below her. Daye barely had time to feel the loneliness of its absence before it returned, three more small feathers in its beak. With it, came two more chickadees, their black-capped heads tilted in interest.
“More feathers.” The first chickadee clicked its beak in satisfaction. “Enough?”
Daye’s throat was clogged with gratefulness and a sudden, painful hope, but her voice was steady as she said, “Please, I need more feathers, as many feathers as you can find. Will you help me?”