“She was kind to me,” I murmur, my eyes blurring. “When I was scared, that first time before going to the King. And when I snuck into Mistress Azami’s room. And at the end. The King was about to kill me. She saved me. But I couldn’t save her.”
I push my face into Merrin’s feathered neck, tears sliding down my frozen cheeks.
The screeches of animal calls rise as we approach the forest. Merrin flies low. It’s difficult to make out much in the blackness, but soon he shifts course, wings canted back to catch the air, and after a few wide, slow circles he brings us down through the treetops into a clearing, where we land with surprising lightness. He lets out a caw. As if in answer, lights spark into flame in the near distance. Through the matted vegetation, they illuminate the hulking silhouette of an abandoned temple, half of it seeming to be carved out of the very mountain itself. There’s the glimmer of water from a lake stretching out to one side.
Wren and I climb down from Merrin’s back. I stagger sideways as my feet hit land. It still feels like I’m listing from side to side, and every part of my body aches from clinging so tightly to his feathers. More of me is hurting than not, but I hold myself upright, forcing a grim smile when Wren tries to help me.
“I’m all right,” I say. “Honestly.”
With a throaty purr, Merrin shakes himself, stretching his arms wide. The feathers wrapping them flutter before half of them fold back down, lying flat over his arms so his wings are only half the size they were before.
“I take it back, lovelies. You’re definitely heavier than mice. Palace food has spoiled you. I hope you brought some with you?” he adds hopefully.
“Actually,” Wren says, “we should have. I’m not sure how long we’ll have to hide out here.”
“I think you’re forgetting we’re an elite pack of warriors,” Merrin replies. “Hunting won’t be a problem.”
“I’m not a warrior,” I say.
“Sweet girl,” he replies, head swiveling in my direction, “you killed the King. You’re the most warrior of us all.” His beaked mouth lifts in a grin. “Besides, are you sure you aren’t part demon? I guess you haven’t had time to look in a mirror, what with all the assassinating and mortal danger and whatnot, but whatever those fools at the palace put on your eyes earlier has smudged.” He flaps an arm. “You’re looking a little… panda-form.”
Before I can thank him for his kind assessment, the sound of footsteps makes us look round. Three figures emerge from the shadows of the foliage. Their lanterns cast an amber glow on their faces. One is a human boy, Paper caste, with a narrow face, a worried slant to his soot-black eyes. The other two are wiry Moon caste leopard demons—siblings even, judging from their appearance, and not much older than Wren and me. They approach in a feline prowl, tails flicking behind them. Their spotted heads are similar, with short, black-lined snouts and round ears beaded with piercings.
“Wren! Merrin!” shouts the female leopard, breaking into a loping run. She squeezes Wren before looping her arms round Merrin’s neck. “You’re late! We were so worried.”
“I hope your lateness isn’t a sign that things didn’t go smoothly?” asks her brother.
Wren’s gaze meets his. “I’m afraid it is.” She pulls me forward. “But our main goal has been achieved, and we have Lei to thank for that.”
The leopard-boy looks at me, his eyes wide. “The King is dead?”
I take a shaky inhale before replying, the answer still unimaginable even to me, with his blood smeared all over my skin.
“Yes.”
The first flakes of snow are beginning to fall as I step out under the temple’s eaves. The moss-trimmed lake spreads before me, dark and glossy in the starless night. I set the lantern down and take a seat on the wide stone stairs, clutching the fur cloak the leopard-girl, Willow, lent me. The temple looks like it’s been abandoned for centuries. Weeds and wildflowers grow in thick sprouts from cracks in the rock. Birds have made their nests in the minarets and peaked rooftop. A great banyan tree towers from one of the temple’s walls, roots as large as the rooms it has grown through, its vines dangling in netted curtains and littering the ground with leaves the size of Merrin’s hands.
I pull my necklace over my head and sharply inhale at the fresh pain it flares in my shoulders. The gold shell of my pendant is still unbroken, perfectly seamless. Carefully, I cup it in my palm, looking for a way in, when its casing cracks neatly open in two. And, years after it was made, its secret is finally offered to me.
For a moment, I stare in silence. Then a laugh escapes my lips. Tears blur my vision. Because the word that floats inside, a single character in brushstrokes of softest black, is so perfect it’s a wonder I never guessed it.
Flight.
I look a moment longer. Then I snap the pendant shut and run back into the temple, shouting Wren’s name over and over, half laughing, half crying, heart bursting with the awe and sun-bright surety of it. Because that is what Wren is to me—my wings. And with her love, she’s taught me how to use my own. To fight against what oppresses me. To lift and launch and soar into the air, just as we did tonight, just as we will have to do every day if we are to make the kingdom safe, just as we will continue doing for the rest of our lives, flying, dancing through the brilliant skies, reaching new heights together, always together.
A war might be coming.
But we have the wings to fight it.
IN THE FLAME AND SHADOW OF the burning night garden, the white fox crouches beside her King. The motionless form of the wolf is sprawled on the bloody earth behind her.
She doesn’t care about him. She doesn’t care that the two keeda girls have escaped. Let them run. Let them believe they have won.
She knows better.
Careful to avoid his wounds, she touches her hand to the King’s wrist—and feels it. A pulse. Faint, but unmistakable.
He lives.
The fox caresses her King’s face. “I knew a mere human girl couldn’t kill you,” she whispers. Then she stands and calls for one of the waiting soldiers to fetch a shaman.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
THE STORY WITHIN THESE PAGES IS a work of fiction, but also a work of love. The world of Ikhara has been heavily inspired by growing up in Malaysia, a country with a dense mix of cultures, and also by my identity as a person of mixed ethnicity. As such, it’s a bit of a hybrid—like me. I feel extremely lucky to come from a multicultural home. It has shaped my influences and perspectives—and will forever continue to do so.
The conception of Girls of Paper and Fire also comes from a personal, deep yearning for more diverse novels, particularly in YA. I believe it’s important for everyone, but especially young people, to see themselves in the stories they consume—to feel acceptance and kinship. To be inspired for their own stories, real and imagined. Even magical worlds have their roots in our own. I would love to see more books reflecting the rich variety of our individual realities.
The story of the Paper Girls is one that is, sadly, representative of many women’s experiences. My own included. While I realize these are hard discussions, especially for teens, it is of vital importance we have them. Books can be safe places to explore difficult topics. While we cannot shelter young people from being exposed to sexual violence, whether through lived experience or indirectly, we can give them a way to safely engage with and reflect upon these issues. I hope Girls provides such a space.