Chapter 2

Renzo

I liftmy little rabbit into my arms and carry her upstairs to her old bedroom. The room's been trashed and, although someone else has tried to neaten it again, it's not good enough. I tut like an old woman and lower her carefully onto the mattress, wrapping her up in the measly blankets and shushing her all over again.

Whatever it is that's gripped my little rabbit won't shift, not with coaxing and not with force. Half the problem is, I don't know what the hell is wrong. Something to do with that Kennedy boy. The one who walks like he's got a rod stuck up his ass, his nose in the air.

Did he curse her? Except I can't feel any dark magic lingering on her skin, dancing through her veins. The only magic I can feel is weak. Not like my rabbit at all. I don't like it.

I rub my knuckles over her cheek, telling her all over again that she's safe. Then I busy myself, using my magic to tidy the room, cleaning away all the debris and broken junk, driving away the dust and the grime, working hard until it looks like a fucking palace, gleaming and all.

The entire time, her little pig lies by the side of the bed, facing his mistress, chin resting on his trotters, eyes locked on her pale face. Occasionally his eyes swivel to me, checking what I'm doing, but I think we've come to an understanding, me and him.

"We can't stay here," I tell him, but he doesn't respond, eyes staring straight ahead.

It isn't like I want to move her either. Not when she's like this. Not when I don't understand what is wrong. "It isn't safe here." I punch my fist into her cushion. I think that's how the hell you're meant to do it. Make it all soft and fluffy for her, then I slide it under her head. She's sleeping but not peacefully. Her lips move in silent whispers, her eyes swing behind their sockets and her brow is damp with sweat, her precious body shaking. "It isn't safe," I say again, more to myself than him now.

I don't know how hard she fought last night in the academy. I don't know how much of her powers she revealed. I don't even know if there are people out there who already know about her, know how special she is. But if they do – if they know who she is – they'll be looking for her.

It's too difficult to sit still. I need to be doing something. Something more than pacing her newly gleaming little room.

I remember the herbs sitting in rows in glass jars along the kitchen window sill. I remember them hanging from the ceiling. It's what people do, right? When someone's sick, they brew them a healing spell. Fuck me if I know what one of those is. But I guess I've never needed an instruction manual or recipe book before – couldn't read them half the time anyway.

I place my cool palm on her warm brow, tell her I won't be away long, then creep downstairs, cursing every damn loose floorboard and noisy door. The kitchen's flooded with hazy light; the window yellow with the rising sun, golden dust hanging suspended in the air.

I open each jar, snap off twigs from the herbs, crush the leaves between my fingers and sniff. Memories sail through my head, sweeping me back to another time and another kitchen, potions simmering on the stove. I find a big bad pot like she had, haul it up on the cooker and add what smells nice, what feels nice, what hums through the air that it's going to help my little rabbit. My eyes stray up to the ceiling. She's lying right above me. I can sense her right there, the thing in my gut ever tugging me her way.

The potion simmers. Tiny bubbles form on the surface, popping and remolding. Steam and smoke and aromas cloud the kitchen. The windows mist, hiding the coming day.

I switch off the stove, dip my pinkie into the scalding liquid and lift it to my tongue. Doesn't taste too much like shit and it sends a warmth sailing though my body.

It's the best I can do. All I can do for her right now. Make her comfortable. Wait for it to pass. Hope it fucking does.

She's still restless when I return, the blankets all a tangle round her body. She looks like a fly caught in a web. I free her, smooth the cover flat. Then I sit down on the bed, right above her head, and comb my fingers through her hair. It feels like silk. Like water.

It's what I remember my mom doing once, when I was small and my head hurt so much I thought it was going to fucking burst. She wrapped me up in my bed, stroked my head, sang me lullabies. Yeah, it wasn't all bad. There were bits like that too.

I hum one of those tunes now. Something old, something that's lasted longer than people like us. A song they'll keep singing when we're gone. It seems to pacify her. She stills, her breathing deepens. My heart stills too. For a moment, I watch her. The way her shoulders lift and fall with each breath. The way her lip quivers when she sucks in the air. The way her blood leaps beneath her skin. She's so delicate. It would be so easy to hurt her, to break her, to ruin her – just like that bastard Marcus did.

I have to be careful with her. Extra extra careful baby steps, Barone.

It's so fucking different from everything I've done before. It's alien. Like picking up her knife in my wrong hand. Like trying to speak backward. Like trying not to think of her.

But practice makes perfect, right? That's what they say. And they can't say I don't practice.

Holding my breath in my chest, I rest my hands on her shoulder and roll her ever so gently, a little at a time, so she won't feel it at all. The pig eyes me with suspicion and I can't help winking at him, something which makes him snort. Finally, she's propped up against me and I reach for the cup with my potion, press it against her lips, wet them.

"Drink, little rabbit," I say. "Drink for me. Just a sip."

Her pink tongue slides from her mouth and dips into the liquid and I could fucking scream with joy. It would be fucking stupid though. So I keep quiet, let her drink a little. When she's had enough, I lay her back down, shuffling her along until there's enough space for me too. Then I slide alongside her, letting her little body roll into mine and wrapping her up in my arms.

I mustn't squeeze too tight, mustn't pull too hard.

Gentle, gentle.

Her head fits beneath my chin, her soft hair tickling against my throat and her breath flows across my skin like wind on the plain. As if she's trying to breathe life into me. Is that what this is? Have I always been dead? Dead inside, right? Am I finally coming to life?

The song withers on my lips as I listen to the song of her instead. The rhythm of her breath, the beat of her heart. Swinging back and forth between the two.

I'm tired. It's been a fucking long day. I can feel sleep sucking me under.

"I did some digging, little rabbit," I whisper to her. "About your mom." The pig lifts his head and glances at me. "Yeah," I say, my eyes drifting shut. "Seems the professor isn't the only one who's good at learning stuff."