Page 58 of Skysong

Girard knew what she was, of course. She had told him a few months into their dalliance, after he’d noticed her running off at the same time every evening. He thought the nightingale was beautiful. Magical. Something to be cared for and celebrated.

She did not want to be beautiful or magical or celebrated. She did not want to be the nightingale. Try as he might, Girard never seemed to understand that, just as he would never have understood if she’d tried to explain to him why she did not want this child.

It wasn’t only that she worried about what kind of life the child would have, with two parents who no longer loved each other as they should. There was something bigger, more dangerous, that she was afraid of.

Andala worried that she would do to the child what her mother had done to her.

It would be so easy. So quick. She could do it the moment the child left her body, sending the power along in the rush. Or any time in those early days – there would be a year or two, perhaps more, where the infant would form no memories, and would never know any different. If they had always been the nightingale, in their little mind – if they could remember nothing from before … Would209that not be forgivable? Would it not differentiate her from her own mother and what she had done?

But the choice was the thing. Andala knew that. She had not been given the choice to control or accept her own fate. It had been thrust upon her, and she’d had no say in the matter.

She would not do that to somebody else.

It frightened her, though – the chance that her willpower might slip, that in an instant of pain or weakness, she might do something she could not take back.

In a handful of moments – where Girard’s excitement bubbled over so strongly it was contagious; or where she felt the baby kick and a little thrill of wonder went through her – Andala found herself questioning her feelings.Wasshe happy that she was to have this baby? And if she was, was it only because some part of her knew the child could offer a means of escaping her curse, should she choose to take it?

The closer the day came, the bigger the child inside her grew, the more strongly her fear took hold. She was sick with it. She did not trust herself. She tried to tell Girard that he should not trust her either. But his belief in her good nature had always been unwavering, no matter what she said or did that should have convinced him otherwise. He was certain that as soon as she laid eyes on the child, all the thoughts and fears and temptations she’d been having would fade, like the sky after the sun sank beneath the earth.

Girard was good, and kind, and he had loved her more than she ever deserved to be loved. But he did not know what it felt like, to be the nightingale. He could never know how it felt to spend every minute wishing you were something other than what you were, or how strong the desire to fulfil that wish could be. And he would never believe her capable of inflicting harm on their child, no matter how deeply Andala knew she was capable of it herself.210

The night before the baby was born, Andala resolved to leave.

Right after the birth. The minute she could walk. There would be no time to waste. She would ask Girard to take the child away immediately, to give her time to rest. And then she would slip away, alone in the darkness, where she belonged.

Girard would be hurt at first, but perhaps one day he would understand. And the child – the child would never have to know her. They would never know what their mother was, or how close they might have been to becoming it themselves.

It was the only way. Andala would run, and she would not look back.

She had no other choice.

‘Andala?’

Girard was staring at her as if she were a ghost. She might as well have been; she could not move, could not speak. They werehere– both of them. The husband and child she had thought she would never see again.

‘Daddy? Who is that?’

Amie’s voice broke the silence. She was tugging impatiently on her father’s sleeve, peering up at Andala with those wide, dark eyes.

The words seemed to break something in Girard. He blinked, his face crumpling. ‘Oh … That’s, well—’

‘She’s Daddy’s friend, darling,’ Leilyn broke in. She had moved to stand slightly in front of Andala, blocking her from Amie’s view. ‘And she’s Grandmama’s friend too.’

Amie considered this for a moment, then announced, ‘I’m hungry, Grandma.’

Leilyn laughed. Andala and Girard did not.211

‘Let’s get you some breakfast, then, my little love.’ Leilyn moved over to the stove, Amie darting into the kitchen behind her.

Without a word, Girard turned and moved further into the house. Andala followed.

The fireplace was blazing in the sitting room. Its merry crackle and warmth did nothing to stop the shivers that wracked Andala’s body. She hovered near the door, hand clasped tight around the back of a wooden chair. Girard stood by the hearth, staring out the nearby window into the immutable dark, profile illuminated by the flames. He looked the same as he had when she’d left: tall, broad, with sun-browned skin and bronze hair tied back in a neat tail. She wondered if she looked the same, too, or if she seemed as much a stranger to him as she was to his daughter.

Finally, he turned to face her. ‘What are you doing here, Andala?’ he breathed.

Andala gripped the chair tight enough to splinter. ‘I-I didn’t know you would be here.’

‘We came to wait out – whatever this is – with Leilyn. I thought it might get dangerous out there at some point, and that we should probably all stay together.’

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