Chapter 14 Danni
DANNI
I waited, but sleep didn’t come.
The sheets were cool and crisp and smelled faintly of lavender—Grandma’s favorite scent.
That scent had always meant safety when I was little.
It went along with her warm arms, the handmade quilt she tucked around me, and the soft hum of her voice.
Tonight, though, the smell made my heart ache.
I pulled the quilt up to my chin and breathed in again, searching for comfort.
Underneath the lavender was something else. That scent again—fur and cedar, earthy and wild. It teased at the edge of my memory like a halfremembered song. My fingers tightened on the quilt as I whispered into the dim room.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
Nothing. Only the cottage settling—the creak of old wood, the sigh of the wind at the window. No golden eyes in the darkness. No deep, rumbling voice.
I let out a long breath and turned onto my side, curling into myself. My arms wrapped tight around my middle as if I could hold myself together. I wished there was someone to keep me warm.
Craig, I thought automatically. I miss Craig.
But the thought didn’t ring true. I had loved my husband, yes, but the longing that hollowed out my chest went deeper than that. It was older, from before Craig—before everything.
I closed my eyes, and in the dark behind my eyelids I began to imagine something strange…
warm, furry arms holding me. Fur that was soft and rough at the same time, like velvet over muscle…
a big chest and a deep heartbeat under my cheek.
That scent of fur and cedar filling my nose as I rubbed my face against the broad chest and drifted off to sleep…
The memory tea must have started to work, because my dreams weren’t the usual fragmented nightmares of hospital rooms and overdue bills. They were sharper, brighter—like little windows opening in my mind. They were also incredibly vivid, maybe because they weren’t really dreams but memories…
* * *
I was back in my first-grade classroom, only seven years old.
The smell of chalk dust and pencil shavings floated in the air.
The metal legs of desks screeched against the linoleum as kids moved around before the bell.
My crayons—my prized new box of sixtyfour with the builtin sharpener—lay on top of my desk.
I had been saving them for freedraw time.
The waxy smell was sweet and comforting.
Then I saw a flash of red from the corner of my eye. Marcy Reynolds was suddenly there in her red jumper, grinning as she grabbed my box and darted off, pigtails bouncing.
“Give them back!” I shouted, my voice high and angry.
She laughed and made a sneering face.
“Make me, crybaby! They’re mine now. All your crayons are mine.”
Little me felt helpless and furious. Adult me, floating inside the dream, thought,
God, I remember how I felt. So powerless. So angry.
My small fists clenched under the desk. I wanted—no, needed—those crayons back. My Grandma had bought them for me and given them to me as a present because I was her special girl. It wasn’t fair that Marcy Reynolds could just steal them like that!
I thought about telling the teacher…but even as a child I knew that was no good.
Marcy was one of the popular girls—a teacher’s pet.
Mrs. Simpkins, my first-grade teacher, always believed her over anyone else.
I would only get myself in trouble if I asked her to get my crayons back for me.
I had to get them myself. But how? How—I had to have them. I needed them!
And then…there they were. Just like that. One moment the top of my desk was empty, the next my box of crayons sat there, every stick sharpened to a perfect point, like a rainbow army lined up for me. The scent of warm wax rose up stronger, almost dizzying.
Marcy stopped midlaugh. Her freckled face went pale as she looked down at her empty hands.
“Hey! How…how did you do that?” she whispered, backing away.
I reached out with trembling fingers, adult and child layered together and touched the smooth cardboard and the bright wax.
Did I do this? Adult me wondered. And if so, how?
Child me only stuck out her tongue at Marcy.
“They’re my crayons—don’t touch them again!”
* * *
The scene shifted like a page turning. I was a year older and gaptoothed. The tooth fairy had visited me the night before and I had a missing front tooth and a dollar in my piggy bank to prove it. I was back at school, but outside this time.
The playground smelled of asphalt baking in the sun and the peanutbutter and jelly sandwich I’d had for lunch and spilled on my shirt. Tommy McCree was teasing me, singing about how I looked like a jackolantern with my missing tooth. His laugh was mean and high, and he was pointing at me.
“Jack-o-lantern girl! Pumpkin head!”
The other kids joined in. I never seemed to fit in with them. I was different from the others somehow, though I didn’t understand why or how.
“Pumpkin head! Jack-o-lantern!” the taunting shouts rose in my ears, but Tommy McCree was shouting the loudest. He still had all his teeth—his buck-toothed grin was mocking me. Suddenly, I couldn’t stand it anymore!
“I wish you’d shut up!” child me shouted fiercely, pointing a finger at him. My cheeks burned with embarrassment and hatred. “I wish you knew how it felt to lose your teeth! Then you wouldn’t be so mean!”
Adult me whispered, Oh no, I remember this now…
The dream flickered, skipping a day. Suddenly, it was the next morning, and I was passing by the nurse’s office.
Tommy’s mother was crying while the nurse examined him.
Every single one of his baby teeth had come loose overnight and fallen out at once.
He spoke with a wet lisp, gums pink and bare.
They would grow back, the nurse said. He would just have to eat oatmeal and soup until they did.
His teeth did grow back, eventually, but still—he didn’t tease me again.
In fact, he gave me a wide margin in the hallways and never came near me on the playground again.
The other kids started avoiding me too. I was weird…
strange. They didn’t know what was wrong with me any more than I did—they only knew they wanted to keep away.
Child me felt a thrill of satisfaction at the sight of Tommy’s empty gums…then a rush of guilt.
Adult me floated above, chilled.
I did that. Somehow, I made it happen.
But how?
* * *
Another shift in the dream, and the air smelled of autumn leaves and bus exhaust. I was walking to school with my crookedneck crow hopping at my side.
His feathers were iridescent, oilslick black with hints of purple and green.
He cocked his head at me and cawed softly.
In his beak he held a shiny button—today’s gift.
I reached into my lunch sack and broke off a piece of pancake I’d saved from breakfast, warm and buttery, feeding it to him.
We had an understanding, my crow and I. He had a crooked neck—his head permanently bent to one side—which made him look like he was always listening.
I really felt like he could understand me.
I didn’t know why he liked me—one day he just flew down from the trees and started following me.
When he didn’t try to peck me and I saw he just wanted to be friends, I started feeding him.
Then he started bringing me presents…a shiny button…
a ragged piece of Christmas tinsel…someone’s spare door key.
Once he even brought me a ring. It was fake—cheap plastic, the kind you got out of a gumball machine—but I loved it anyway.
I kept all my “crow treasures” in a box under my bed.
My crow and I walked along as usual—he always came with me to school and then walked me home again—until suddenly I heard a shout. Before I could even register what was happening, one of the older boys—Russ Baker, a sixth grader—swooped down and caught him.
“Look!” he shouted. “I got it! I got the witch girl’s crow!”
My crooked-neck crow flapped wildly, feathers flying, voicing his rusty “Caw! Caw-caw!”
“Let him go!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “He’s not hurting anyone—you let him go!”
I could feel my whole body tingling with anger. Something was building up inside me—something powerful that I couldn’t contain.
But before I could let it loose, I heard a horrible sound—a crack like twigs breaking. The crow went limp, his shiny feathers still and suddenly dull. I could almost see him leaving—a dark shadow winging its way skyward from the empty body.
I fell to my knees on the playground gravel, sobbing. The sting of my scraped knee…the bitter tang of dust in my mouth…the tears hot on my cheeks. I remembered it all so well.
I gathered the limp body, feathers already cooling, and ran to Grandma’s house.
“Please,” I begged her, “fix him. Please fix my crooked-neck crow, Grandma!”
A look of sorrow came into her faded blue eyes.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, stroking my hair. “I’m so sorry, but even magic can’t fix death.”
Later, we buried my crow in her garden, and I sobbed in her lap.
“I’m so sorry you lost your first familiar like that, Danni, my love,” she murmured, her fingers carding through my tangled locks. “But don’t fret. You’ll get another. One will find you at the right time just like your crooked-neck crow did, I promise.”
Adult me, inside the dream, wanted to cry too as I watched my younger self weep. Even magic can’t fix death. Craig’s face blurred into the crow’s, frail and fading.
Even magic…even magic can’t fix it…
* * *
Suddenly the dream skipped again—many years this time. I was in the hospital room—the one I remembered so well. Machines were beeping. The smell of antiseptic and sickness were thick in the air.
Craig’s hand was in mine, light as paper. His eyes were sunken…unseeing. The sharp scent of disinfectant stung my nose. I tried to hold on, but he was slipping away no matter how hard I gripped.
Please don’t go, I thought. Please don’t leave me alone. I don’t want to be alone…
* * *
I woke with tears in my eyes, my chest hitching. I was sobbing before I even understood why. The room was dim and soft around me, the smell of lavender mixed with fur and cedar strong in my nose. My pillow was damp and my chest ached. Oh God, I was so alone…so alone…
And then I felt a touch.
A big, furry hand slid out from under the bed and wrapped gently around mine, the long fingers entwining with my own.
I gasped, the sound sharp in the stillness, but the hand was warm, not cold. Not hurting me—just holding on.
I stiffened, my eyes going wide in the darkness.
Oh God, what was I going to do?