Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
“The best years of my life were the worst of hers,” says Cyrus, because you could not keep that conversation with Gertrude to yourself.
As you walk back home together through the woods, your boots grind against the snow underfoot. The winter air burns your lungs.
“And she can’t understand how we feel so differently about it. I’ve tried to explain it. I’ve been human again for almost nine years. She still looks at my wing and sees a wound she didn’t heal. But that’s not what I see.”
That’s not what Gertrude’s children see, either. Or half the children in the marketplace. They see it and they think Cyrus is made of magic. To them, it’s a wonderment. And to you?
“I think your wing is beautiful.”
The admission startles both of you.
For a moment: boots on snow. Wind in the naked trees. The ghost of your exhale.
Then Cyrus slips his arm through yours.
“I loved being a swan, Hans,” he murmurs.
“Most people see my wing and pity me, but I was so happy then. No one ever imagines I was happy. We were happy.” His irises swallow the moon when he turns his head to look at you.
“Gertrude wants to forget it ever happened. Our brothers, too. But I don’t want to forget.
I carry the proof in my body. I can never leave it behind. ”