Oren squeezed my hand, gently, so as to avoid pulling at the barely healed skin. “Then we should go. How do we find her?”
I took a deep breath, letting the spring air fill my lungs, fill every corner of my body. Turning so that I faced the outside, I stepped forward until the tips of my feet aligned with the groove where the Wall used to be. On this side the pavement was darker, less weathered. On that side, weeds grew up through the cracks, spindly flowers opening to the morning light. A fitful eddy of wind tossed a spray of gravel from under my feet, across the line.
“This used to be the end of the world,” I whispered, closing my eyes. I could still feel the memory of the Wall, its vital crackle, the glow of magic against my skin. I hoped I would never forget the way magic felt. “Right here.”
When I opened my eyes I could see only sky, a few distant clouds scudding across a blue so pure it could be the ocean where Eve grew up. I could still feel her, lingering in my mind halfway between a memory and a dream. She might have vanished, but she wasn’t gone. She was out there somewhere; and, like the tendril of a breeze touching my cheek, I could sense her mind against mine.
A flock of birds, startled by something unseen, erupted from the ruins a block beyond the edge of the shattered Wall. Calling to each other, they swooped overhead, ducking down through the alley and then up again into the light. I remembered how Nix used to play with the birds in the Iron Wood’s orchard, shifting shape in midair to confound and challenge them. There was such joy in their flight, as the unfolding spring and the promise of sweet sea air beckoned them north to the homes they used to have.
I smiled. “Maybe we’ll follow the birds.”
EPILOGUE
I’m standing by the sea, my feet swallowed by the sand. There is a storm coming, but not for a little while. For now the wind on my face is cold and lively, waking me. The salt from the spray burns my eyes, and I blink away the tears forming there. The water is cold, numbing my feet and promising a quick, painless end.
When I close my eyes, I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, daring myself to take that last step. The impulse starts in the base of my feet, deep in the sand, tingling like feeling returning after the cold. It burns up my legs and makes my thighs tremble, surging into my lungs and making the air feel like knives between my ribs. My heart sings, my hands clench and release. My chin lifts, and the wind grabs at my hair, whipping it like strands of ice around my face.
Not today, I realize as the impulse fades, returning me to the ground, connecting me once more with the sand beneath my feet. And probably not tomorrow, either.
It’s the choice that leaves me breathless.
I turn away from the waves, heading for the twin quaking aspens at the edge of the rocks to the south. The ruined house up just beyond the dunes stands dark and empty, and full of ghosts. I slept there once and had such dreams… dreams of another life, of a wood of iron and a city of shadows, of a sister lost and love shattered. I choose not to sleep there. Instead I rest under the aspen trees, and listen to the leaves whisper things, and think that sometimes I can almost understand.
But then I stop. I am not alone.
There’s someone there, standing under my trees, watching me. I move closer, leaving thin, cautious prints in the sand behind me. When I’m close enough to see her face, she smiles.
“I know you,” I whisper.
“Hello, Eve.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, and I see healed-over burns scarring the backs of her hands. “I’m glad I found you.”
The aspens overhead stir in the wind of the oncoming storm, a ripple that starts over the girl’s head and sweeps through the rest of its branches. “Come sit with me, sister.” There’s time yet, before the rain.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ve tried and failed several times to write the acknowledgments for this book. Despite the solitary nature of writing, the creation of a book is anything but solitary, and there are at least a hundred people I need to thank for making these books, this trilogy, a reality.
My agents, Josh and Tracey, my editor, Andrew, the entire team at Carolrhoda Lab and Lerner Publishing Group. My family: Mom, Dad, Josie, Naomi and Jerry, Harry Wolf. The booksellers at One More Page and at Malaprop’s Bookstore. The bloggers and librarians who’ve been with me from before the beginning. The friends who welcome me back for board games and dark ‘n’ stormies no matter how long I vanish into the book cave. My fellow authors, for their support and wisdom, especially the girls at the CL: Megan, Alexa, Beth, and particularly Stephanie, without whom I’m not sure I would’ve gotten through the shadows. And, of course, Amie, soul mate and general nuisance, always making sure I’ve done my words and that I haven’t given up.
I was on my way back from a book festival the other day and I finally realized why these acknowledgments were such a struggle for me: I wasn’t thanking who I really wanted to thank. Though Skylark certainly wasn’t written in a vacuum, it was written privately; and to a certain extent, Shadowlark was as well. But by the time I got to the third book in this trilogy, I wasn’t writing it just for me anymore, or even for me and my publisher. I was writing it for you.
You, who stays up late at night, reading by flashlight. You, who write to me after you finish each book. You, who I’ve never met, and perhaps never will meet, but for a few shared moments spent in this book. It’s your enthusiasm for this story and these characters that has kept me going and pushed me to finish this trilogy. I couldn’t have done it without you. And I mean that from the bottom of my heart.
So thank you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Meagan Spooner grew up reading and writing every spare moment of the day. She graduated from Hamilton College in New York with a degree in playwriting and spent several years living in Australia. She’s traveled with her family all over the world to places like Egypt, South Africa, the Arctic, Greece, Antarctica, and the Galapagos, and there’s a bit of every journey in the stories she writes. She currently lives and writes in Northern Virginia, but the siren call of travel is hard to resist, and there’s no telling how long she’ll stay there.
In addition to writing the Skylark trilogy, Meagan is the coauthor of These Broken Stars with Amie Kaufman. You can visit Meagan online at www.meaganspooner.com.
Lark Ascending Page 28