Alistair says it’s the best seat in the house.
I say that it’s a tree, and it’s very uncomfortable with the branches digging into my thigh and leaves brushing at my face.
“We’ve come full circle now,” Alistair says, pulling me onto his lap and wrapping his wings around me. “We met because of a tree.”
“You didn’t fall.” By this point, I know it’s not a question.
“No, I didn’t fall. I saw you, and you were beautiful, and I might have slipped on purpose.” He leans his warm cheek against the top of my head. “I thought you were a phoenix. For a second, when I first saw you. With your red hair and . . . and the burns. I thought you were like me.”
“I wish I was.”
“You can be, Sylvie. You can learn to fly. You can make something beautiful out of the ashes of what you used to be.”
I lean back into his soft wings. “You’ll stay, won’t you? You’ll stay with me. You’ll teach me how to fly and—”
“Sylvie, I won’t be here forever.”
“But you will be! You’re a phoenix, Alistair, you’ll live practically forever. You’ll be around longer than me.”
Alistair swallows nervously, dryly.
I grab him by his shoulder, turning him so he’s staring directly at me. He looks pale, his eyes watery. I can feel him shaking under my grip.
He’s burning, like he has a fever. But I know it’s not a fever.
No.
No.
“Alistair, how old you are?” I demand, my voice shaking like his body is. “How old you are?”
He swallows again. It sounds like it’s starting to hurt.
“Alistair!”
“I don’t know,” he finally whispers. “Old. My feathers stopped growing back.”
I look, and sure enough, there’s a patch where handfuls of feathers used to be. Feathers that I’ve ripped out, feathers that he gave to the girl on the subway, feathers that saved me.
“How long?” By now, my voice has dropped to a whisper, too. “How long before you die?”
YOU ARE READING
Our Ashes Will Fly
CerpenI'm in love with a boy. He has red hair and blue eyes, and skin as pretty and perfect as marble. And one of these days, he's going to burst into flames.
