Mayhap struggled to breathe, the air around her warm and thick, the grass chiming at her cheeks. “She was lonely,” she said. “But now she has us.”
“Not us,” came Winnow’s voice.
Pavonine cleared her throat.
Other-Mayhap didn’t make a sound.
“Fine,” said Mayhap. “Now she has me.”
“You think you can be sisters after this. After all of this. That is wishful, little wishful one,” said the grass.
All the while, as the grass was speaking, Mayhap was trying to put all the pieces of the puzzle together.
Think of an animal, think of a place. Think of a person, think of a face.
Straygarden Place. Quiverity Edevane. The silver grass.
Think of an animal, think of a place. Think of a person, think of a face.
“Wishful one?” she said. “But you are the one who is wishful.”
“We do not wish!” said the grass. “We have the most magic in all of this barren place. We do not wish. We do. We make. We — are.”
Mayhap knew that she had touched on something true, because the grass’s words thrummed with anger, with hurt, with — longing.
She thought about the wanderroot trees, the silver grass pressing itself against glass — looking in, always looking in. She thought about the windows, opened and squealing on their hinges like out-of-tune violins. She thought about the bats in the conservatory, quivering among branches. She thought about the dead plants, too, and her parents’ work — trying to determine why nothing grew at Straygarden Place except silver grass and floating trees.
“There is one thing you cannot do,” said Mayhap, folding her arms and planting her feet.
“Mayhap,” said Winnow, “don’t anger it.”
“Shhh,” said Pavonine.
Other-Mayhap held her tongue.
“We too would like to hear what we cannot do,” laughed the grass, its strands parting.
Mayhap steeled herself, digging her heels into the bedrock below her. She thought of Quiverity Edevane losing her family. It hadn’t made sense to Mayhap before, but now it did. Now all of it did. It all clicked like keys in locks, turning with the thrill of metal unhooking metal.
“Quiverity told me that you can’t give your magic away,” she said, louder than her heart cared for, “unless someone has a crack in them.”
“We can do anything we want!” shrieked the grass. It wound its silver around her again, hugging her tighter and tighter.
“That’s why you killed Quiverity’s family,” said Mayhap. “She needed a crack in her, didn’t she? And you had to make it.”
“And why would we, great as we are, want to give away our magic — our power?” The grass’s many voices were angry now, multiplying like bats in a night sky, bright as stars and sharp as diamonds.
But it didn’t tighten further around Mayhap. It wanted her to answer. It wanted her to speak.
“Because,” she said, “you have so much magic that nothing can grow around you. You have so much magic that you are alone. No one wants to be alone. Not me, not Quiverity. Not even you. The cost of light is darkness. And the cost of magic is loneliness. You press your silver against the windows because you are lonely. You steal bats because you are lonely. You watch us because you want to be like us. You want what we have. You want what Quiverity wanted. A family.”
The grass stopped rustling. It loosened its grip on Mayhap, and in the dim light she could see the whip-like twines around her, spitting and sparking. “It is the truth the girl speaks,” said the grass. “It is our one defeat.”
Relief like a storm-flooded river.
Until the grass spoke again.
“But you, Mayhap, will help us.”
Mayhap’s breath was punched out of her lungs. “What?” She fumbled for words. “But I — I won’t accept it. I won’t accept your magic.”
“It’s not you we want to offer it to,” said the grass. “It is Quiverity Edevane. It is time we gave her more magic. Last time, the rift we opened in her could have swallowed a minor sea, and she took only some. But if we take you from her — a girl she made, a girl who loves her unconditionally despite what she did, despite who she is — she will split wide enough for all of it. For all of our magic. That is why we need you. That is why we whispered to Winnow. That is why we set her roaming, led her to the other Straygarden Place. So that Quiverity could lose you. So that we could kill you, now that you have known her and loved her.”
Pavonine began to sob loudly.
“Please,” Mayhap said. She had no more plans and no more schemes. “Please, don’t do this. You don’t want to give away all your magic, do you?”
The grass seemed to really think about the prospect. “We do,” it said at long last. “The cost of magic is too grave. We were an ordinary field of grass until a golden feather fell from the sky and made us what we are. But then there was too much magic in us and nothing green could grow beside us. Our magic overwhelmed even the sturdiest plant. We made the floating trees — the ones your mother named wanderroot. We watched their flowers blooming above us. But we want roots beside us. We want a tree, a thorny flower. We want a bird singing on a branch.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mayhap. “Loneliness is as bad as any other sickness.”
The grass only laughed. “We won’t be lonely anymore — not after this.”
And it began to tighten around Mayhap again.
Tighter and tighter.
“Goodbye, Mayhap,” it said.
“No!” screamed Pavonine.
“No,” whimpered Winnow.
The world sputtered out of view.
Then other-Mayhap spoke: “Wait! You don’t have to do this! Give it to us!”
The grass loosened — just enough for Mayhap’s vision to clear.
“Give it to the four of us,” said other-Mayhap. “We will accept it gladly. The
