Hidden in the Heartwood {sapphic paranormal}

CHAPTER TWENTY

20. || early morning breeze.

As she awoke in River's bed, Finley almost forgot she was dead. Or undead. Or whatever the hell she was or wasn't in these woods. Curled against her stomach laid the white lynx, filling the space where River had remained last night til she fell asleep and then longer still. The day had already dawned before their warmth left her.

Cracked ajar, the paneled window above the bed let in the songs of morning; from the low babble of the brook to the high trill of the woodland wrens, and then somewhere in between, River plucked out the melody of Early Morning Breeze, singing softly to themself.

Finley slipped away from the lynx so as not to disturb him and gathered up the black and blue checkered throw at the foot of the bed. Draping it over her shoulders, she hugged it to her waist to cover her bare legs and walked down the hall towards the kitchen to steal a listen through the screen door.

Morning had brought with it the first soft frost of the season, but River didn't seem to mind the chill. Like yesterday, they wore a henley tucked into dark trousers and a pair of suspenders over their shoulders. They sat on a hand-crafted wooden bench with their back against the cabin, eyes towards the dirt road, and fingers gliding deftly over the strings of the vintage mandolin. Their voice was somehow both raspy and velvet smooth as it clung to a note that seemed far more forlorn than Dolly had originally written it. For a moment, a hush fell over the woods.

Until the lynx butted through the screen door and it slammed shut before Finley could catch it.

"Good morning, Boots." As River looked up from the mandolin, their lips pressed to a smile, but it didn't quite reach their eyes like normal.

Fumbling with the door latch, she stepped out onto the porch. "Good morning. I uh, didn't mean to creep up on you. Again."

River scooted over and patted the bench. "I could feel ya lurkin'. Heard ya creepin."

"Oh." Apparently, stealth didn't just come naturally to ghosts as she'd hoped. She gathered up the trailing blanket and took a seat next to them.

"You've got a particular walk. Reminds me of a fawn. Walkin' light on that foot puts more pressure on the othern." They mimicked the sound of her uneven gait with their fingertips against the mandolin. "That bullet musta tore your bones to shivers, huh?"

Finley nodded, crossing her legs to raise her foot. "I didn't exactly get to a hospital right away." River raised a brow and hummed with interest, but didn't pry, just waited with open ears. For the first time, it actually felt good to tell someone. So she did. "I spent a day limping and crawling towards a voice in my head til I found Buckmouse all tangled in the fencing, covered in worms and flies. After a couple days of stagnate crick water and fever dreams, I got the bright idea to use those worms to eat the infection."

"Probably saved your life." River leaned over and took her foot in their hands to look at both sides of it where the bullet had went clean through. "You're smart, Boots. A survivor."

"I dunno about that." Pulling her leg back, she tucked her knees up to her chest and River started plucking out another tune. From the branches above the porch, a pair of chickadees flew down to a pool in the crick, chirping away as they splashed and preened their feathers together. "Do you sing with the birds every morning?"

River laughed and ran a hand along the back of their neck. Color rose to their cheeks as they looked back down at the mandolin. "I figure if I gotta hear them chirpin', they oughta hear mine too."

"I read once that birds sing at the crack of dawn to let their mate know they survived through the night." As Finley glanced over, River's fingers slowed on the strings, but they didn't look up. "Are you singing for someone, River?"