“Who else would it be?” Linné said. Her shoulders drooped. Magdalena’s eyes were puffy and red, her hair disheveled. Bright scratches ran down the length of her arms.
Something was wrong.
“What happened?” Had the Skarov already come? She imagined Magdalena and Linné, in separate blank rooms, sporting fresh bruises and fighting to keep their spirits up.
“Everything’s fine,” Linné said. She forced a smile. It didn’t fit her.
“You sound very cheerful,” Revna said.
Linné shook out her hand. The knuckles were scraped. “Do I?”
Yes, something was definitely off. “What happened?” she repeated.
Magdalena let her thick hair fall into her face. Her eyes settled on the place where the sheets flattened below Revna’s residual limbs. Revna tried not to shift away.
“Nothing. We’re tired. Not everyone got to lie in bed all night like you did,” Linné said. Her classic sharpness was back, but one side of her mouth twisted. It might be a genuine smile this time.
“The others are asking about you. Shall I tell them you’re doing well?” Magdalena said finally.
“Very well,” Revna said, and the lightness came back. “I’ll be out of here in a couple of days.”
“No, you won’t,” the nurse put in from behind them.
“Get better, all right?” Linné blushed at Revna’s smile. “You’re my ticket to shooting things. I don’t know what I’ll do until we fly again.”
Revna did. “You’ll scowl in the mess.”
Magdalena giggled. Linné looked daggers at her.
“That’s enough,” the nurse said. “Revna needs to regain her strength.”
“Can’t they stay? I promise they’ll be quiet.” She didn’t want to be alone, nursing her injuries, remembering the last few days. Worrying about what would happen next.
Magdalena pressed her lips together. Linné folded her arms.
The nurse flared her nostrils. “At least I can keep an eye on you,” she said to Linné. Linné lifted her chin in defiance. “Did they let you off, or send you back here to rest?”
“That’s none of your business.” Linné took the chair next to Revna’s bed.
“What’s she talking about?” Revna asked as the nurse left.
Linné shared a look with Magdalena that Revna didn’t understand. She didn’t like it. Why was everyone acting so bizarre?
“I’ll go now, too. I’m supposed to be inspecting glass for gas canisters. I’m, um, a little behind.” Magdalena coughed, then leaned in and wrapped her arms around Revna’s shoulders, pressing tentatively. Revna breathed deep. Her friend smelled of sweat and oil and smoke—and liquor? Magdalena’s nose pressed into the top of her head. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said into Revna’s hair. She looked at Linné one last time. Her eyes filled and she blinked furiously before turning away.
Revna watched her leave. “Did you two fight?” she said as the door swung shut. It would be typical Linné to antagonize Magdalena as soon as she got back.
“Not each other,” Linné said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Linné opened her mouth, then closed it again. She clasped her hands, squeezing until the skin of her knuckles broke open and filled with red.
Her uncertainty was more jarring than her silence. “Did you tell Tamara about the Serpent?” Revna asked to distract her.
Rage gleamed in Linné’s dark eyes. Something in her spoke to Revna of despair, of helplessness, and slowly the anger diminished until she could force her hands apart. “We didn’t fly the Serpent.”
“What are you talking about?”
Linné opened her mouth once more, and the story came out. She told Revna about her interrogation in broken sentences, falsely casual, as though it had been nothing more than a conversation between her and Tannov. Revna knew better. The Skarov never chatted.
She listened, and the hollowness in her grew the more she heard. Everything was different. Everything was a lie. “So all this was for nothing?”
“No.” Linné hesitated, then lifted her hands. They fell, heavy and awkward, on Revna’s shoulders. But the longer they stayed there, the more they seemed to fit. “I told you I wouldn’t abandon you. This…” She met Revna’s eye. “This is going to keep us flying.”
It was going to keep Revna out of prison. But somehow, it felt like an empty trade. The Union stood for truth and obedience, faith and loyalty. Her family had been destroyed for the tenets of the Union. She’d lost her leg for the Union. Now the Union didn’t want to hear the truth at all. Anger made her vision swim.
She put a bandaged hand over Linné’s scraped one, pressing until she could feel the pain in hers. Linné’s eyes shone with grief, raw and real, for all they had done and could not say.
“We still know,” Linné said. “It’s enough for us.”
They both knew it had to be.
She didn’t mean to start sobbing. And when panic flashed over Linné’s face, her tears turned into a gasp of laughter, for a bare moment. She couldn’t help herself. She leaned into Linné’s shoulder, shaking.
Linné’s arms closed around her, tentative. One hand rested on her head, then slid cautiously down to the nape of her neck. “I’m here,” she said in a soft voice Revna had never heard before. It only made her cry harder.
Later she could do anything. Later she could be stronger. But now she sobbed, and Linné stroked her hair and held her until she fell asleep.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
There is a trite saying that truth is stranger than fiction, and another trite saying that the best lies are often laced with truth. This elaborate lie I have spun is inspired by the truth, and while much of that truth is strange, it is also tragic, uplifting, and incredible in its own way. The women who inspired this novel were not called firebirds, but Night Witches, and they flew night missions at the Soviet front during World War II. Flying outdated training planes, they dropped bombs on the German lines to keep their enemies from sleeping, and it was the Germans who gave them their iconic name. The Night Witches met resistance from their enemies, their own army, and their country—but they never stopped fighting, and they never stopped caring, even when it seemed the Union didn’t care about them.
Reading about their friendships and their hardships made me want to write a book about women who only needed one another, women who worked hard to do what everyone said they couldn’t, women who struggled and suffered for a country that would never repay them. The books that most inspired me were, first off, A Dance with Death by Anne Noggle, which is the closest we can get to hearing the words of the Night Witches themselves. I also found Wings, Women, and War by Reina Pennington and Soviet Women in Combat by Anna Krylova to be essential reading to understand the full significance of the Night Witches and their sister units.
This novel is, of course, very loosely inspired by the story of the Night Witches and is not meant to be historically accurate.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The very first people I’d like to acknowledge are my family. Mom, Dad, Liz, and, of course, Grandma, you’ve always encouraged me to keep writing, to share that writing with the world, and to work on my dream of becoming a published author. Honestly, how many moms say to their girls, I still think you’ll make your living off writing?! I love you all, and I miss you all.
Second, to my husband, Elias, who was the one who actually put up with my writing habits, let me sit down at the computer at all sorts of inconvenient times, who watched me set ridiculous goals for mysel
f and helped me achieve them, who talked me through difficult plot points, who read my strangely horrific short fiction, and who can always mortify me by performing my novel in a voice loud enough to wake the neighbors. I love you, too.
Thank you to Kurestin Armada, my amazing agent. You didn’t just see my book—you saw where it was, and where it should be, and how to get there, and you were the first who did. I’m so grateful to work with you. Here’s to many more historically inspired fantasies!
And thank you to Hallie Tibbetts and Lisa Yoskowitz, my editors at Little, Brown. Hallie, you never gave me a comment that didn’t stick. You pushed me, you had faith in me, and you gave me the tools I needed to make a book I’m still proud of. Lisa, having you on my side was wonderful, from our first conversation to our cover discussions and beyond. It’s been a pleasure from the first phone call. Thank you.
To the Little, Brown team who made this book a book: Jen Graham, Anna Dobbin, Virginia Lawther, Karina Granda, cover artist Billelis, and the publicity, marketing, and school and library teams. Thank you for cleaning up my messy writing, keeping everything on task, and giving me a beautiful interior and exterior.
A lot of research was conducted while writing this book, and a good chunk of it involved marginalized individuals, particularly amputees. A special thank-you to the people who allowed me interviews and discussed the social and practical realities of disability, and a special thanks to Kati Gardner for your sensitivity reads. Any remaining errors, in fact or in judgment, are mine, and for them I apologize. I will always be striving to do better.
Writing can be lonely, but it doesn’t have to be! A big thank-you to the sci-fi and fantasy writers’ group in Copenhagen, to the Storied Imaginarium, and to the Brainery, who all played a big part in helping me to understand my strengths and weaknesses. And often fed me cake.
And to the Novel Nineteens and the Class of 2k19, who have been a place of cheer and happiness, who have been supportive through my fears, depressions, and elations: I got a different but no less important kind of writing support from you, and I look forward to seeing where our writing takes us all.
I’d probably better acknowledge Sabaton, Swedish power metal band and fantastic live performers. And Crystal, for giving me your extra ticket to go see them. Maybe I would never have heard their song Night Witches otherwise. Maybe I’d never have gotten curious. Maybe I’d never have written this book.
And finally, one last thank-you to the women themselves, the Nachthexen, the Night Witches, who risked it all in total war. I’d never heard a story like yours. I hope I’ve stayed true to the spirit of it.
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