Page 22 of Monster's Secret Baby

The bottle slips from my fingers, rolls toward the water's edge. I don't bother retrieving it.

"HARMONY!" Her name tears from my throat, echoing across the water. My magic flares in response, blue-white energy crackling visibly across my skin, scorching the rock beneath me. "Where are you?"

Golden plumes of power lick up my arms, dancing along my wings. I don't try to control it. Let it burn. Let the entire fucking riverbank burn if it wants to.

"You could have told me to my face." My voice breaks. "If you didn't want me anymore. If I... if I disgusted you somehow. You didn't have to run."

The magic intensifies with my emotion, and I close my eyes, letting it flow. It feels like the only part of me that's still alive—this raw, dangerous power coursing through my veins.

"I would have let you go," I lie, because we both know I would have fought for her. Would have done anything to keep her.

Like I'm doing now.

I shed my shirt, letting it fall to the ground. The cool night air hits my bare chest, but I barely feel it. The wine has me numb everywhere except where this hollow ache lives.

I spread my wings to their full span—fourteen feet of silver-gray feathers that once made Harmony gasp in wonder. Now they're unkempt, some feathers hanging loose, others broken. I haven't groomed them since she left. Haven't cared.

"Look what you've done to me, little bird." I reach for the geode in my pocket, hold it up to catch the moonlight. "I'm nothing without you."

The magic surges again, stronger this time. Blue-white energy races across my skin, down my torso, along my wings. The air around me crackles, and small stones near my feet rise and hover, caught in the magical current.

I want to scream. Want to tear the city apart stone by stone until I find her.

Instead, I fall to my knees at the river's edge, wings dragged behind me in the dirt. I dip my hands into the cool water, watching my magic dance across its surface like liquid lightning before it sputters out.

"I will find you," I promise, voice raw. I press the geode to my lips. "Even if I have to burn down the world to do it."

11

HARMONY

Iwake before dawn, as always. It's a habit I've started in the few months I've been here. The attic ceiling slopes low over my bed, wood beams catching the first hint of gray light. My small room feels like a nest—snug and mine in a way nothing has ever been. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and press my palms against my temples, willing the dizziness to pass.

"Just tired," I mutter to myself, the way I have every morning this week.

The floor is cool beneath my bare feet as I splash water on my face from the ceramic basin on my washstand. I twist my hair into a loose braid, wrapping a faded blue scarf around it to keep the curls from escaping while I work. The ritual grounds me, preparing me for another day of focusing on anything but memories.

Outside my window, Saufort is still sleeping. Morning mist clings to the cobblestones, and the distant silhouettes of the golden fields are just visible beyond the village rooftops. I've been here three months now. Long enough that some mornings I wake up without immediately thinking ofhim.

Not today, though.

I pull on my work dress—a simple brown linen thing with deep pockets—and make my way down the narrow staircase that leads directly to Marda's kitchen. The familiar scents of yeast and hearth ash should comfort me. Instead, my stomach rolls unpleasantly. I press a hand against the wall, steadying myself.

"Need to sit?" Marda's voice comes from behind me, making me jump.

I straighten quickly. "I'm fine. Just didn't sleep well."

Marda stands with her hands on her hips, gray-streaked hair already tucked beneath a cooking kerchief, eyebrows raised in obvious disbelief. She's the heart of this place—this restaurant, this village—a woman who speaks her mind and loves without apology. I've learned to trust her more in three months than I did most people in a lifetime.

"You said that yesterday. And the day before." She pushes past me, stoking the cooking fire with practiced movements. "The garden needs attention before the heat sets in. Dreelk's bolting early this year."

"I'll get to it right away." Grateful for the escape, I grab my harvesting basket from its hook.

Outside, the kitchen garden stretches in neat, abundant rows. I sink to my knees among the herbs, letting the scent of soil and growing things wash over me. This is where I feel most centered—my hands working as my mind quiets. I begin cutting stems of meadowmint, filling my basket methodically.

An hour passes in peaceful labor until Joss appears at the garden fence, his potter's hands already clay-stained though the day has barely begun.

"Morning," he calls softly. Since my arrival, he's appointed himself as a sort of quiet guardian. "Marda says you're to come in for tea. Not a request, apparently."

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