Then he left. Gavin’s bound hands lay limp in his lap. Reaching out, Elly took one of them in her own. She intended only to make sure the bandages weren’t too tight, but Gavin said, “Don’t. He meant what he said. He’ll cut your fingers off or something.” So she let the clumsy thing drop.
“We have to find Theron,” she said.
“Theron is dead,” he said.
A shudder went through her. She remembered Theron’s thin arm around her, helping her climb the tower stairs; his voice, bright and coaxing and full of life, saying, Come on, El. A few more steps. I’ll keep you safe. I won’t let you fall. But in the tower itself, Gavin believed he’d heard that betraying turncoat of a magus say he’d killed Theron. Gavin believed he’d been paralyzed, bound by some force he couldn’t see. Gavin believed Judah was alive.
She took Gavin’s face in her hands—his worn, somber face, the two desolate pits of his eyes like chips of coal. “Tell me again,” she said.
“Judah’s not dead. She jumped. I saw her jump. But she’s not dead.” He hesitated. “I can’t see my fingers. Can’t move them, can’t touch anything with them. But I know they’re there. I know Judah’s somewhere, Elly. I don’t know...where—”
The last was barely a whisper. Elly felt her eyes fill with tears, but she pushed them away with the heel of her hand.
“You don’t believe Judah’s dead,” she said. “I don’t believe Theron’s dead. Until we learn otherwise, one way or another, we believe each other. All right?”
His eyes still held that odd mix of stubbornness and pity that was becoming so familiar to her, but he said, “All right.”
“Good,” she said. “In the meantime, we’re together. And we’ll stay that way as long as we can.”
Suddenly, unexpectedly, he dropped his head to her shoulder. His arms, with their bandaged hands, slid around her waist; gripped her tightly, as if to prove she was real. She put her own arms around his shoulders even though she didn’t know if she was real, she didn’t know if anything was real anymore. She didn’t have to know, she told herself. A few more steps; a few more after that. Wake up each day and figure out how to survive it.
She would keep them safe; all of them. She would not let them fall.
Somewhere and Nowhere
There was light—or was it merely the absence of darkness, or was it the absence of anything at all? She saw nothing. Her eyes found nothing to see. She was not sure if she saw light or dark or simply void, absence. Was what she felt truly cool or was it simply the absence of warmth? She was lying down—or was she standing? There was no surface. She simply was.
Who was she?
She didn’t know. She didn’t know how long she had been—here—wherever she was. She was not sure if time passed in the light or the absence or whatever it was, but it seemed to. One idea flowed to the next, at least. They were all shapeless, vague. This? Not this? Something else? Eventually she was able to think words like where? and when? and who? If there were names for those things, surely there were names for other things. Surely there were—other things.
Things. Yes. There was a thing called pain; she knew the bite of it. She knew hurt, and then bite, and then teeth, and then suddenly she knew her own teeth, there in her mouth. She had a mouth. She had a head. She had—a body—
She more than was; she had a self. And she realized: this self was not new. There had been a before. This, now, was not an absence but a continuation. Of this one thing, of this first thing, she was certain: she had been. She would be. She was.
I’ll stand up.
She was standing up. A gentle ecstasy filled her and with it came words. She thought feet and they were there, below her, ten naked toes in the nothing. She thought dress and found herself in a gown the color of new grass at dusk, a fine silver vine winding up from its hem. She felt the weight of hair down her back, blinked lidded eyes; thought air and discovered breath slipped in and out of her body.
The nothing around her reminded her of fog—fog!—and fog reminded her of the orchard—orchard!—and somehow she was not surprised when slim trees coalesced out of the absence. Damp ground pressed the soles of her feet. Slowly—as slowly as it had in the beginning of everything—the world formed around her, and there was breeze and there were smells and instead of void her ears filled with the subtle susurration of life itself; and, somewhere above the fog, she knew there was a sun.
She took a step, and then another. The world was beautiful and after the endless time in the void everything she saw dazzled her with its very there-ness, and she was walking through it. Toward what, she didn’t know. There was something she needed. She would walk until she found it.
* * *
Acknowledgments
This is a very long book, so my acknowledgments will be short. Many thanks to Kathy Sagan for taking a chance on this one, as well as Justine Sha, Randy Chan, Ashley MacDonald and everyone else at Mira for shepherding it out into the world; to Gigi Lau, Micaela Alcaino and the rest of the Harlequin Art Department for the gorgeous cover, and for turning my weird lopsided squiggles into lovely non-lopsided maps. Huge thanks, as well, to Elena Stokes and Brianna Robinson, who helped The Unwilling find its feet in the big scary world. The McTiernan family loaned me their name for Elly’s home province (although they may since have forgotten), so thanks to Linda, Jack and Ewan. Endless gratitude—and that’s not hyperbole, my gratitude will seriously never end—to Erin Morgenstern, Kelly Link and Ellen Datlow for wrangling unwieldy early copies, and to Tabitha and Naomi for wrangling even earlier, even more unwieldy versions. Children and books: it really does take a village.
The biggest of hugs and fanciest of candles to my dear friend and agent, Julie Barer, who said, “Maybe you should write the fantasy novel you’ve been talking about for twenty years,” and then went all in on it when I did. I might have written it eventually anyway, but without Julie’s support and enthusiasm it might have taken another two decades. She is quite possibly the hardest-working woman in the book business and I am incredibly fortunate to be able to work with her. Thanks also to her assistant, Nicole Cunningham, whose patience is nigh on superheroic.
My mom, Theresa Braffet, is a huge fantasy fan, and it was truly satisfying to write something I knew she would love—so thanks, Mom, for being such an enthusiastic reader, even when I write things that don’t have magic in them.
Finally, as always, I am deeply grateful for my family: the small human, who puts up with me spending too much time writing things she’s not allowed to read yet, and my partner in all things, Owen King. He read this beast of a novel several million times at last count, and he’s the kindest, smartest, most honest and most supportive reader, husband, general human being that I have ever known. With every year that passes I become more and more grateful for him. I can’t believe I got so lucky.
ISBN: 9781488055393
The Unwilling
Copyright © 2020 by Kelly Braffet
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
For questions and comments about the quality of this book, please contact us at [email protected].
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