Page 67 of Fable for the End of the World

“No.”

“It might be easier to stay warm,” I say, “if we were closer together.”

As soon as the words are out, a fierce blush rises to my face. I stare down at the floor, because I can’t bear to look at Melinoë, to see her scandalized expression. She doesn’t reply, and a long stretch of silence passes between us. The wind keeps up its brutal howling.

When the silence has gone on for so long and my cheeks are so hot that I’m considering just walking out into the cold and freezing to death just to escape the utter humiliation, Melinoë says, very quietly, “Okay.”

The next moments unfold without words. Haltingly, I get to my feet. Melinoë sits up and shifts backward, nearly to the edge of the bed, to make room for me. I bend down and unlace my boots. The whole time I can feel her gaze on me. It draws my blood up near the surface of my skin—almost like a knife, but without the pain.

Once my boots are off, I lie down on my back, tense. Melinoë drapes the covers over us both. She hesitates for a moment, then slides down onto the mattress beside me.

The bed is too small for us not to touch. We’re pressed shoulder to shoulder, both staring up at the ceiling. In the cold, our breath drifts up above our heads, mingling in soft wisps of white.

“I’ll stay up and watch the door,” I say, but the effect of my words is diminished by a very ill-timed yawn.

“It’s okay. I’m a light sleeper.”

Exhaustion is weighing on my eyelids. “Okay.”

It doesn’t take long for the warmth of Melinoë’s body to start seeping into mine. Under the covers, the tips of my fingers begin to regain sensation, chasing away my fear of frostbite. I flex them in relief, and when I do, my thumb brushes against Melinoë’s palm.

I expect her to flinch away, but she doesn’t. We just lie there in silence. I slow my breathing until it matches hers exactly, our chests rising and falling in an identical rhythm.

I don’t know if I’ve ever lain beside someone like this before. Maybe Luka, once upon a time, but I was too young to remember. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I was this close to someone who didn’t hurt me. Even Jacob, whose kiss I never asked for, tasted so bitter in my mouth. And I can’t remember ever wanting to be touched like this by someone. Held. Maybe more.

Melinoë falls asleep before I do, long, pale hair spread across the pillow, shimmery in the low light, and it’s impossible to remind myself to be afraid of her. I’m only afraid of waking her, of spoiling this moment that seems held in timeless suspension—this moment where she looks so much like an angel to me, but not the kind that Caerus makes.

The lamps burn hazily, running the oil down to its last drops. My eyelids slide shut, and sleep claims me.

I wake slowly, in warmth and in silence. Morning light bleeds through the cracks in the walls, falling in bright bands on the floor. One stripes across my face. The woodstove has gone dark, but the chill has been banished from my bones. I no longer feel the cold at all. I can only feel the slight scratchiness of the bedsheets, and the gentle pressure of Melinoë’s arm around my waist.

I’m curled on my side, and so is she, her face so close that her slow breath tickles my cheek. I go completely still, listening to her low exhales and inhales, hardly daring to breathe myself.

I wonder if it was a conscious choice, or if her body simply folded into mine, in the muddled throes of sleep. Pressed together like this, the world takes on a bleary, luminous glow, like thevestiges of a dream. I close my eyes again.

If I am dreaming, I want to stay asleep for just a little bit longer.

In the end, it’s the faint simmering of anxiety that jogs me fully awake. It was my turn to keep watch, but obviously that was an utter failure, and who knows what could have been attracted to the cabin overnight. Even though I know it’s unlikely due to the storm, I’m compelled to check, just to make sure.

But when I extricate myself from the bed—very, very slowly, so as not to disturb Melinoë—and nudge open the door, it’s not the muggy, suffocating aftermath of a rainstorm that awaits me. It’s snow.

A fine, crisp layer of frost lies over the ground. It lines every tree branch and makes a pale crown over each jutting stone. Where sunlight finds its way through the canopy, it makes the snow sparkle like broken glass. The albedo effect is so strong that I have to raise a hand to shade my eyes.

I let out a breath of amazement, which floats from my mouth in a white cloud. I wonder if, somehow, I could still be dreaming.

From behind me, inside the cabin, there’s the sound of Melinoë stirring. I shut the door and turn around to see her sitting up, stretching her thin arms. I wonder if she remembers holding me in the night. I feel a faint thud of disappointment at the thought that she doesn’t.

Her hair is mussed from sleep, falling loose around her shoulders. Her eyes look brighter than I’ve ever seen them, the hollows of her cheeks not so pronounced. The bruise on her temple has all but vanished. I can’t seem to find her sharp edges anymore, thecold Angel qualities that once terrified me. Now she looks delicate, almost ethereal. My heart skips a beat.

I must have the most indecipherable look on my face, because Melinoë frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head, as if I can banish the traitorous thoughts. “But you should come outside.”

Warily, she rises from the bed. “Why?”

“Just trust me.” I bite my lip on a smile as Melinoë crosses the room, heading to the door. “Wait. Hang on.”

The oversize flannel shirt I wore yesterday is hanging on the back of the chair. Melinoë watches with no small amount of consternation as I pick it up and drape it over her shoulders, buttoning the top button so it looks like a cloak.

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