4. Lunch Is No Longer Alive
lunch is no longer alive
Time in the grove doesn’t move in hours or minutes. It moves in the slow opening of petals.
The sun has become my first enemy.
By the third day, the clearing is a furnace of gold and orange. The peonies love it. They’ve grown fat and heavy, their copper petals shining brightly.
But the glass keeps drinking the heat.
I can’t move her.
I can’t even touch her without my own mossy skin sizzling and drying out against the crystal.
So, I become the shade. Standing for fourteen hours a day with my wings draped over the crystal to keep the sun from burning her fair skin. They filter the harsh yellow light into a cool, watery emerald.
My back aches, the new muscles in my shoulders screaming under the weight of holding my petals steady. But every time I look down and see her chest rising in a slow, steady rhythm, the pain turns into a quiet sort of hum.
I’m no longer only a monster. I’m the shade she rests under.
By the third week of the Great Heat, my roots have found the cool, damp veins of the earth beneath the willow trees.
Droot is currently patrolling the perimeter of the peonies. His berry-stained nose twitches at every rustle of grass. He takes his job as The Sun’s Second Guardian very seriously.
To keep my mind from drifting, I’ve decided to carve. I don’t want to forget a single moment.
Using one sharp, opalescent claw, I reach past the edge of the glass to the dark stone beneath.
Day 17: The wind smells like rain, but none has fallen. You looked peaceful today. Droot found a blue beetle and named it Lunch. He popped it into his mouth, then decided they were friends instead… Lunch is no longer alive. But I can’t bring myself to tell him that.
Day 22: A hawk circled the willow trees today for an hour. I didn’t move… or breathe. Droot decided berries were more important than our safety.
Day 36: Droot tried to pick a fight with a puddle because it mimicked his ears. I find that if I speak low enough, the dark voice in my mind goes quiet, replaced by the rhythm of your breathing.
I look at the growing row of tally marks and words. They’re more than a simple calendar. They’re one of the only ways we can have a conversation.
“It’s hot today, Eden,” I whisper. “But the peonies are thriving. Sometimes I think they’re trying to outshine you. They never even had a chance.”
* * *
On Day 45, the sky is a deep, angry purple that matches the stains on Droot’s paws.
The air is heavy enough to choke on. Rain slams against my wings.
I tuck my chin and pull my petals tighter around the glass to create a waterproof seal.
Thunder booms so loudly it makes my roots tremble in the mud.
Droot dives into the leaves between my shins, his tiny heart thudding against my ankle.
Sky is angry, Sage! he chirps. The Sun is going to get wet!
“I won’t let her,” I groan, leaning my weight against the plinth as the wind tries to tear the wings from my back.
Lightning flashes, illuminating the grove in a wash of silver. My gaze snags on three figures huddled under the eaves of the trees at the edge of the clearing.
The lightning flashes again, and they are no longer standing beneath the trees. Through the gaps in the willow branches, they catch a glimpse of the crystal, and the fire-haired woman within it.
Their faces take on a different kind of hunger. They begin whispering, their hands moving to the hilts of their knives.
The wind carries their predatory laughter. “Think of what they would pay for her.”
“Or…” another one of them says. “Maybe we keep her for ourselves.”
The blood in my veins goes ice-cold. A roar stirs in my chest.
Sage? Droot whispers. Sage feels like… the bitter dirt.
“Stay down, Droot,” I rasp.
I surge upward, my wings snapping wide with a crack that rivals the thunder. Thorns erupt from my forearms.
Kill them, the voice in my mind seethes.
I rip my roots free from the earth and step out from the shadows. Golden liquid pours from where we were merged.
The men freeze.
“You think you have the right to touch her?” I ask, my voice echoing through the meadow. “You look at a defenseless woman and see something to take advantage of?”
I step closer.
They slowly back away.
“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.