Page 97 of Tracking Snow

"I shouldn't be saving it," I say, staring down at the creature.

The flutterbun shivers in my palm. My hand stays lightly closed around it. It trusts me.

It shouldn't.

Snow shouldn't.

Snow's grip on my wrist tightens, knuckles bone-pale.

"Then put it down."

"I should have walked past the alley." My voice scrapes coming out, even as I continue to hold the flutterbun. "I should have left them in the cage."

"Don't." Her voice cracks on the word. "Don't you dare."

The little thing looks up at me with sad eyes and then drops its head and begins to lick me. Like it's grooming me in thanks. My stomach clenches and I feel sick. "It's an abomination. It's a magic being, sickness with teeth and a heartbeat and it doesn't belong in this city."

"Stop."

"None of it belongs here." The pulse under my thumb keeps hammering even as it continues to lick my palm.

Slowly, carefully, I lean over and set the flutterbun down on the couch cushion, though it seems resistant to let me slide away. As if it finds comfort in my touch. "None of it. Including me."

"Stop it." Snow's other hand fists in my hoodie at the chest, close enough that her breath stutters warm against my jaw. "What is wrong with you tonight? Who put that in your head? Who the fuck taught you to talk about yourself like this? To believe this shit?"

"My mother." It slips out before I can stop it. "And when I forget, she reminds me."

"Wait, what?" Snow rears back, releasing my hoodie. She narrows her eyes. "Why would you lie to me?"

I push up off the carpet. She rises with me. The freed flutterbun lifts its head from the couch cushion. On the coffee table, the others crowd the tray, beef in their teeth.

"Lie to you?" I ask.

"You told me your mother died."

Now it's my turn to be confused. "I never told you my mother died."

"Yes, you did. You said you remembered her loving you, and you missed that."

Every emotion inside me hardens to stone. "She didn't die, Snow. She stopped loving me."

Snow looks at me like what I'm saying is either stupid or crazy. "What?"

"She stopped loving me," I say, over-enunciating like she’s dense.

"Why?"

"I told you when I was a kid I got sick. That was why."

Say it. You're talking around what she needs to hear, Four demands.

But I don't want to say it. I don't want to care. I want to act like it doesn't hurt, though it's a constant pain, an always open festering wound that rots us all through our core.

"We developed magical abilities. That was the sickness. We became an abomination, wrong. It's a sin, Snow. I'm a sin."

"You developed a magic power and your mom stopped loving you because of that?" she sputters. "Well, that's fae shit. Magic powers aren’t a disease, and that's not love at all, a mom is supposed to love you no matter⁠—"

"And what the hell do you know about being loved by a mother? You barely even had one."