We’ve been traveling the Wasteland for a week now. Four days ago, we skirted a Tree People village without incident. Not that I’ve ever known Tree People to get involved with the affairs of those who leave them alone, but we can’t take any chances. I never used to understand why people would choose to build houses in the trees in hopes of avoiding the Cursed One rather than live beneath the protection of a city-state. Now, I know that sometimes the protection of a city-state comes at too high a cost.
Two days ago, I began recognizing markers along the way and knew we were back on the path to Rowansmark. The forest has changed and thickened, easing out of pin oak trees and into silver maples interspersed with pine. The morning dew hangs just as heavy in the air as it does on the ground, and large fields of waist-high grass ripple sluggishly beneath a half-hearted breeze.
Melkin and I have fallen into a rhythm. He leads, beating back the worst of the undergrowth, and I sweep the ground behind us to cover our tracks. I hunt for our dinner each night, and he makes the fire and handles the cooking. We speak only when necessary during the day, but at night, as we eat rabbit, boar, or turkey, we talk. Though we rarely discuss anything personal, it’s beginning to feel like I’m traveling with a friend.
Though I never forget that our friendship could be his way of trying to hold me to the Commander’s orders, and when I catch him watching me with something dark and brooding in his eyes, I know he feels the same.
As we make camp again for the night, I can see he misses his wife. It’s carved in miserable lines on his face, bracketing his mouth with tension that refuses to ease.
I miss Logan, too. More than I thought I would.
The slap of humiliation I once felt every time I thought of him is gone. In its place, I see Logan sacrificing sleep so he could finish the tracking device. Offering to teach me to use the Switch and helping me hold on to the good memories I have of Dad. Drawing his sword against the Commander, despite overwhelming odds, to protect me. Logan is the lodestone I cling to when grief over Oliver and fear for Dad threaten to rob me of what little hope I have left.
Something in me has awakened and responds only to Logan. I lie sleepless long after Melkin begins to snore and press my fingers to my lips as I remember Logan leaning in, his breath fanning my face, his eyes locked on my mouth. A delicious ache pulses through me. I feel like a stranger waking up in my own skin—aware of every inch. Heat runs through my veins, both exhilarating and terrifying.
Exhilarating because every part of me tingles with life.
But terrifying because beneath the longing lies an inescapable truth: If he is my lodestone, it’s because somehow in the last few weeks I’ve started to rely on him. Lean on him. Need him. My heart pounds a little faster as the realization sinks in.
I need Logan.
Not because I need saving. Not because he could plan our way out of this. But because on some basic, soul-deep level within me, he is the solid ground beneath my feet. The one who will move mountains to keep his promises. The one who looks at me and sees.
I can’t imagine my life without him.
Everywhere I look, he’s there. A constant thread binding my past, my present, and the future I want so badly to have with him.
With him.
My eyes fly open.
I’m in love with Logan.
Not the way I thought I was two years ago, when I offered him my heart. That love was uncomplicated and innocent, designed for a simple life. The love consuming me now is fierce and absolute—forged in a crucible of loss and united by our shared strength.
I love Logan. A laugh bubbles up, even as tears sting my eyes. I reach up to clasp his mother’s necklace, the symbol of his promise to me, and hold the tender, vibrant thought of him close as the stars chase each other across the sky.
Halfway through the next day’s journey, we approach the clearing where Dad and I always stopped for a meal, and the ache of missing him throbs in time with the ache of missing Oliver. If I can find him now, the fierce edge of my grief will lessen. He’ll know how to save Logan without giving the package to the Commander. He’ll take the burden of this awful responsibility off my shoulders.
I don’t realize how much I want him to be waiting for me as we move past a thin line of maples and into the small field of yellow-green grass until I see he isn’t there.
He isn’t here.
I know it isn’t logical to feel so hopeless when I had no real reason to think he’d be camped at the edge of the clearing waiting for me, but I can’t help the tears that stream down my face. Loneliness eats at me, and for the millionth time since I left Baalboden, I wish Logan was with me.
Quickly swiping my palms across my cheeks before Melkin catches me crying, I start to turn away when movement catches my eye. A slice of deep purple shimmers gently against a tree trunk on the far side of the field. Veering off course without saying a word, I move toward it, my heart suddenly knocking against my chest like it wants its freedom.
“What are you doing?” Melkin asks behind me.
I ignore him and hurry, the crisp stalks of grass parting before me and shushing closed in my wake. The purple is a ribbon, wind torn and water ravaged, tied around the base of the lowest branch. The initials S. A. are embroidered in the corner.
I know this ribbon. It’s one of a handful that belonged to my mother. Dad always carried them with him when he went into the Wasteland.
I want to laugh. To dance. To open my mouth and let the fierce joy singing through me echo from the treetops.
He was here.
And he wanted me to know it.