Wonder Made

Twenty-Eight, Part Two

He nodded and cast his gaze toward the sky, his demeanor forlorn. She'd noticed the slump in the boy of crows' posture but had chalked it up to exhaust from this entire weekend and--oh lord. A protracted sigh squeezed through her lips as the realization that a new school week began tomorrow. But Crispen's heaviness was something apart from exhaust, and Peneloper realized its source. Crispen Heavensley, the boy of crows, couldn't be called as such without his crows.

"Where's Genesis?" she asked.

Crispen tensed, his gaze focusing on something she hadn't yet grown the eyes to see. Maybe it was something only those further mired in the know knew, or maybe it was part of Crispen's private collection, the thoughts and pain he kept locked away, things Peneloper hadn't yet had the key to open. Lacking the deft fingers, or the spry, sassy attitude and roguish charm, she could not live that #thief-life. But Crispen, for the first time, since their acquaintance, unlocked his depths for her. No extra prodding required. "Gen's gone," his voice, little more than a whisper, though she heard the pain stabbing the words.

She slouched, as though an invisible fist had been slammed in her gut. She cast Gideon a side-ways glance, but noticing her looking at him, he shook his head as if to answer her. She immediately thought that he could read her thoughts too. Why not? The entire bloody magical community seemed to enjoy in this invasion of her privacy, to which, Gideon nodded, the corner of his mouth upturning into a half-smile.

Crispen reached up, grabbed at the air, and brought his hand back down. When he opened it, a single black feather sat in his palm. "Gideon's"—Gideon pursed his lips and rolled back over on the grass, facing away from them, probably in another attempt to avoid confronting those feelings that would humanize him in any meaningful way. "shroud," Crispen continued. "It perverted the dog, yes?"

Peneloper nodded. "I'm afraid Chant's come down with a most contagious feline adorableness."

At this, Crispen managed to smile, dim though, like a lightbulb on the verge of burning out. "I'm sure he's more agreeable, in that form."

"Quieter most definitely," she agreed. "Though he's become less agreeable to my allergies, I'm afraid. But what about—"

Crispen hefted the feather. "It's a raven's feather. Glossier than a crow's. Slick, like oil. He flew off." The boy of crows frowned. "I haven't a clue where to."

Peneloper's hands clenched as a battle raged on inside her. A part of her wanted to reach out and hug Crispen. Not to feel his warmth but in a hope that her warmth would provide some small comfort. She could be for him what Chant had been for her, a pillar to lean against, a shoulder to cry on, someone whose very presence reminded you weren't alone and that it was okay to cry when you'd forgotten it was. The other part of herself was fueled by her remaining dignity. It waved the banner of self-preservation.

"Besides, you can't be the boy of crows without Gen perched on your shoulder. It's almost criminal."

Crispen nodded. "You're right, Miss Auttsley. Of course, you are."

Her father's face looked paler, his eyes dull, his gait slow. After Heavensley ensured her that he would keep tabs on Gideon, Peneloper had jogged to meet him at where the walkway began snaking toward their porch. "How are they?" she asked sheepishly.

He ran a grime-covered hand through his hair and was already reaching into his coat pocket to pull out another chocolate. "They're fine."

His fingers trembled as he tore at the candy's foil wrapper. "Did you—" she started. Then, she felt compelled to stare at the ground.

A chocolate truffle was shoved into her face. "Here," her father said. "Chocolate has the power to cure whatever ails you."

She took the chocolate, cocoa powder staining her fingers. "That's not true, is it?" She popped it in her mouth and bit down, a flood of salted peanut butter oozed across her tongue, satisfying the ache of her sweet tooth.