Thirteen
Warren’s left foot swings against the table leg. Thump. Thump. Thump. He twists his fingers together so furiously that Solma worries he might hurt himself.
“Warren,” she murmurs, draping her hand over his. “It’s ok.”
Warren sighs and, for the tenth or eleventh time in as many minutes, glances behind him to the windowsill where a shaft of sunlight illuminates the clay pot Bell placed there, filled with water and freshly cut lavender flowers, and from which a tired and grateful Blume feeds. She buzzes her wings, her tongue dipping into the flowers.
“She’s fine, War,” Solma says, squeezing his hand. “It’s ok.”
Warren shakes his head, chewing his lower lip.
“She didn’t want anyone to know.” He mutters.
“It was an accident.”
“She just needs a chance—”
They both start as the ce
