Under the Same Stars by Libba Bray(111)

Where was I?

Yes. The barn owl.

There was little time to mourn, for the hunter had discovered the secret message for the prince. He was a clever man, the hunter. It wouldn’t take him long to decipher the code.

“Saga. Freya. The time has come for you to leave the forest,” said the oak.

“Leave the forest? But it is our home!”

The oak knew that people sometimes had to leave the homes they loved. Because of war. Or famine. Or tyrants. Some escaped. Some were dragged to new lands in chains. Some were forced from their homes and their land stolen. These people would carry the loss so deeply it would burrow into their blood to be passed down to their children and their children’s children—a twin heartbeat, loss and survival.

“If you stay, the hunter will surely find you. You must go north to the Great Gray Sea. You must go to meet the prince.”

Meanwhile, in the castle, no one could decipher the sisters’ message. The hunter caught and tortured other birds, figuring they were in league with the barn owl. But they knew nothing and died for nothing. Their limp bodies dangled from a rafter above the hunter’s golden head.

“How can these traitors escape me?” said he, cutting into a shiny apple. No one had seen an apple in quite some time. And this was a particularly sweet and juicy one.

You remember I taught you what verdant means? From the Latin, virēre. Green. But there is another definition. “Unripe in judgment. Naive.” That is the thing about words; they can have different meanings. Words matter. The right ones can open a door or a heart. The wrong ones can seal your fate. Freya and Saga were verdant in this way. Trusting. Naive.

The hunter bit into the sweet white meat of the red, red apple. “Where are these weavers hiding?”

The field mouse’s nose twitched with desire. Its eyes were on the apple. “I know where they are,” said the field mouse. “The forest magic hides them.”

“Stop with your lies!” sniffed the fox.

“That’s mice for you,” said the rooster with a glance at the hunter to see if he was pleased.

“It’s true! They brought me honeyed acorns if I promised not to tell!” the field mouse cried, indignant. From its messy lair, the mouse tugged out a scrap of linen from one of Saga’s treats. The hunter examined the fabric. It was undoubtedly the same cloth.

“And how are they hiding from all the king’s men, little mouse?”

The mouse was suddenly afraid. Perhaps it had not done the right thing. It was hard to know. The hunter offered a delicate sliver of apple between his fingers. The field mouse swooned at the scent. “It is the magic of the oak,” said the mouse. “It turns them into a hare and a deer by day. They have been helping the lost children escape to the sea.”

The hunter did not believe in magic. Magic is open to interpretation. It is a thing of ambiguity. You know this word? A useful word. It allows for humility. It allows for mercy. But this was not a word for the hunter. He was a man of certainties. Of absolutes. Of retribution. To believe in magic would be to admit that he could be outsmarted. No, the hunter believed only in himself.

“There is no such thing as magic,” he said. “Still. I shall go to see this tree for myself. And if these traitors are there, I will capture them.”

The hunter dropped the apple. The mouse gobbled it down. But the taste was not nearly as sweet as its allure, and the mouse was sick with regret.





KLEINWALD.


NOVEMBER 1941

The world drowns in late November’s gloom. Sophie wonders if there will be a time when her bones will not ache from the damp and cold. She’s tired all of the time. But there’s no rest in sight.

“Eagle has a new assignment for us,” Leon tells them as they sit around the table drinking cold tea made from barley, which has to do these days. The art students have just left and the door is shut and bolted. “A transport of children being taken out of Germany. They need passports, birth certificates, baptismal records. Everything.”

“How many children are there?”

Leon pauses. “One hundred forty-five. And we would only have four days.”

“Are you mad?” Karl asks. “How can we possibly do this? Even working all day and night!”

Leon stares into his tea. “We would have help.”

Hanna’s eyebrows furrow with suspicion. “What do you mean? What kind of help?”

“There is an Allied spy. British. She and Hawk have met through channels. The British spy wants to help us.”

“How?”

“By bringing more people into our operation.”

“I don’t like the sound of it,” Hanna says. “What do we know of this woman? She could be Abwehr undercover.”

“She is not German intelligence,” Leon says with more umbrage than confidence.

“How do you know?”

“Because Eagle and Hawk are sure. That is enough for me.”

Hanna’s laugh is bitter. “Oh. Is it? The Abwehr are very clever. You won’t know until it’s too late and you’re being marched into the woods.”

Sophie glances at Karl, who keeps his eyes on his ink-stained fingers.

Leon waves off Hanna’s concerns. “Don’t be so emotional, Hanna.”

“What does this British agent want?” Karl asks, interrupting the budding war between them.