Many things will do for now.
(But not for much longer.)
Her butterfly clings to the far wall, its luminescent wings folded against one another, showing their dusty undersides. It is, she suspects, the only one that survived, and she does not know how long it will live, or whether it grieves its brethren, or whether it will stay with her at all.
She only knows what she hopes.
She sits up. She is, she realizes, naked under her sheets, and bathed. There is a bowl of water with lemons and mint floating on its surface and a dish with a small, clean sponge resting in its center. She runs her tongue over the injured inside of her mouth. It tastes slightly of lemons.
How long have I been sleeping, she wonders. She knows that she has been dead once, though she does not remember it. Did she die again? Is her borrowed time nearly gone? She suspects it may be, which is why she feels she must help people while she still breathes. As many as she can.
Which is to say, everyone.
There is a flowered dress draped on the chair, and a brush and a pitcher of water and a wash bowl on the dresser. There is a pair of soft shoes as well, but those she does not put on. She has never been one for shoes, despite the egg woman’s best efforts. She slides over to the ladder and pads downstairs, her butterfly fluttering behind her.
Marla is nowhere to be found. The junk man sprawls his skinny limbs across the couch, his mouth wide open and snoring. The egg woman’s dogs have opted to remain in the house, and are sitting at attention, watching the junk man intently, their ears pricked up and their eyes narrowed to slits. As though he is a dangerous creature who might need to be subdued at any moment. Or torn to shreds.
“Papa,” the girl says, her voice a ragged husk of itself.
The dogs whine and thump their tails on the ground. They love the girl—always have. They are old dogs now, impossibly old, but still strong and bright-eyed and spry. It isn’t magic. Of course it isn’t. Magic is illegal. Still, whenever she is near them, she can feel her navel glow and heat, and she knows that when the time comes for her to leave town, the dogs will not likely live to see her return. She has accepted this. In a unified motion, all three dogs slide to their feet and stalk next to the girl, lowering their heads toward the junk man and showing their teeth. He wakes with a start. He stares blearily at the girl and blinks.
He does not smell of whiskey. He smells instead of pickles and mustard plaster and rosemary tea. Marla has laid down the law. Again. The Sparrow finds herself wondering how long it will last.
The junk man coughs. “You’re not dead.” There is a sob hiding in his voice. The Sparrow has one too. She knows the ferocity of his love for her, and she reciprocates it.
“No, Papa,” she says. “I am not dead. Not yet. Where’s Marla?”
“Town.” He sits, rests his spindly elbows on his bony knees. His fingers are long and delicate as willow twigs, though his knuckles are red and raw from the careless gnaw of his teeth. What is left of his teeth.
“I’m going to follow her. I need to tell her something.”
“She told me to tell you to stay put. She made me promise.” His eyes are red too. Bloodshot and red. And it is not from missing the drink. He has been weeping. He will weep again. The girl knows this for sure.
“She will forgive you. Anyway, there is something I need to take care of.”
“My bird, my bird. What do you think you’re doing?”
She smiles. He presses his hands to his heart. She crinkles her eyes to keep her tears at bay.
“The right thing, Papa. I only ever try to do the right thing.”
She kisses the top of his head and slips out of the room without another word, her butterfly clinging to her back. The dogs follow at her heels.
20. Then.
Despite the egg woman’s protestations, the junk man insisted on bringing the girl wherever he went. Their nation was formed in the shape of a dandelion gone to seed—each province made up of several small towns connected on one circular road, largely left to their own devices (most of the time), and connected to the capital by the main road, which was heavily guarded and maintained. There was no communication between provinces, and there was no travel to the capital except by express permission of the Minister. There were rumors that it wasn’t always so, but no one could say for sure. No one had actually read a history book, after all.
History was another banned subject.
Within the towns of their province, the junk man enjoyed total freedom of movement. He reported to no one, served no one, needed no one, and slept each night under the stars. With the addition of the baby into his life, only the last bit remained true.
“What if it rains?” Marla protested.
“Then it will rain. And we will be clean,” the junk man said, dandling the babe on his knee. He made a carrier that could attach
