Chapter Text
Grian ran so fast that his breath came in short, sharp gasps, his heart hammering against his ribs. His wings pressed tightly against his back, held so still they might as well have been bound. Instinct screamed at him to spread them, to use them for balance, for momentum—but he resisted, just as he always had.
By the time he reached his room, his cheeks were flushed, his feathered ears twitching with the rush of movement. His dark, tousled hair clung to his forehead, and the bright tips of his wings quivered, the flight feathers itching against the fabric of his shirt.
His dinner was waiting, but he hardly noticed. Gem stood nearby, arms folded, one brow raised in amusement. "You're late," she said, though there was no real scolding in her tone.
"I saw Scar!" Grian blurted, unable to contain himself. "I saw him!"
Gem’s face lit up with a knowing grin. "I knew he’d find you," she said proudly. "How d’you like him, then?"
Grian caught his breath, eyes gleaming. "I think—" He hesitated for half a second, as if the words were difficult to say, then straightened his back and declared, "I think he’s beautiful."
Gem blinked, momentarily taken aback. Then she laughed, shaking her head. "Scar?" she said, a touch incredulous. "I mean, he’s the best lad I know, but we never thought of him as handsome."
Grian’s feathers ruffled slightly. "He is," he insisted.
Gem tilted her head, considering. "Well, he’s got that wild look about him, I suppose," she admitted. "But his nose turns up a bit too much."
"I like that about him," Grian said immediately.
"And his eyes are big ‘round things," she added, though there was fondness in her voice. "A nice colour, at least."
Grian’s expression softened. "They’re exactly the colour of the sky over the moors," he said.
Gem smiled, pleased by that. "Mother says they got like that from him always lookin’ up at the birds and the clouds," she said. "But he’s got a big mouth, hasn’t he?"
"I love his big mouth," Grian said firmly. "I wish mine were just like it."
Gem let out a delighted laugh. "It’d look right funny on your face," she teased. "But I knew it’d be that way. How’d you like the seeds and tools?"
Grian blinked. "How did you know he brought them?"
Gem snorted. "Oh, Scar wouldn’t come empty-handed if he knew you needed somethin’. He’s a thoughtful sort, for all his mischief."
She didn’t ask any difficult questions, though Grian worried she might. He was still reeling from everything—Scar’s presence, his voice, the way he’d spoken to him without hesitation, without judgment. His mind buzzed with the memory of it, and for the first time in a long while, he felt something new blooming inside him.
Hope.
Still, his moment of comfort faltered when Gem asked where he planned to plant the seeds.
"Who did you ask about it?" she inquired.
"I haven’t asked anybody yet," Grian admitted, hesitating.
Gem frowned slightly. "Well, don’t go askin’ the head gardener. Mr. Roach is too grand for that."
"I’ve never seen him," Grian admitted. "Only the under-gardeners and Joel."
"If I were you, I’d ask Joel," Gem advised. "He’s not half as bad as he looks, even if he’s as gruff as an old badger. Mr. Slab lets him do as he pleases since he was here when Lady Cleo was alive. She liked him, so he’s got some favour."
Grian frowned slightly. "If it was out of the way, and no one else wanted it… no one could mind me having it, could they?"
"There wouldn’t be any reason," Gem said, shrugging. "You wouldn’t do any harm."
Grian barely tasted his dinner, finishing quickly and already half-rising to leave, when Gem stopped him.
"I’ve something to tell you first," she said, glancing at him with an odd expression. "Didn’t want to say before you ate. Mr. Slab’s back."
Grian froze. The air around him seemed to still.
"He—he’s back?"
Gem nodded. "Came this morning. And I think he wants to see you."
For a moment, Grian couldn’t speak. His throat tightened, and a cold dread wrapped around his stomach like a vice, and he almost let out an involuntary squawk.
"Why?" he managed, his voice quieter than before. "He didn’t want to see me when I arrived. I heard Bdubs say he didn’t."
Gem hesitated. "Well," she said carefully, "Mrs. Symmetry says it’s because of my mother. She ran into him in the village. She never spoke to him before, but Lady Cleo used to visit us a few times."
Grian listened, pulse drumming in his ears.
"He’d forgotten, but Mum hadn’t," Gem continued. "She said something to him about you. I don’t know what, but it must’ve struck him, because now he wants to see you before he leaves again. Tomorrow."
Grian’s breath hitched. "Tomorrow?"
Gem nodded. "And he’s going for a long time. Might not come back till autumn. Or winter."
A sudden wave of relief crashed over him, unexpected and dizzying. He hadn’t realised how much he wanted that—needed that.
"Oh," he said, the tension in his shoulders releasing. "I’m so glad." He breathed, “so, so glad…” before his smile froze and he winced, eyeing the maid.
Gem gave him a small, knowing smile.
But before Grian could say anything else, the door swung open.
Mrs. Symmetry strode in, looking unusually put-together, her black dress immaculate, a large brooch pinned at her throat. Her sharp eyes immediately fixed on him.
"Your hair’s a mess," she said briskly. "Go and brush it. Gem, help him change into his best."
Grian’s stomach twisted. He felt the warmth drain from his face, the little flicker of hope snuffed out as quickly as it had come.
He stiffened, shoulders locking, and suddenly he was small again. Plain, silent, closed-off.
He said nothing as Gem guided him away, helping him into finer clothes—dark, embroidered trousers and a deep blue coat, the fabric stiff and unfamiliar. His wings pressed uncomfortably beneath it, and for the first time, he hesitated.
"Gem," he murmured, his fingers twitching. "Could—could I have wing holes in my clothes?"
Gem looked at him, startled. He had never asked before.
"Not now," she said softly, adjusting his collar. "But I’ll see what I can do."
Grian swallowed hard, nodding.
Then, silent as a shadow, he followed Mrs. Symmetry down the long corridors toward a man he did not want to meet.
Grian was led through the dim, winding corridors of Rock Manor, his wings folded tightly against his back beneath the heavy fabric of his coat. It had been draped over him before leaving his room, a precaution he barely fought against anymore. Even here, away from the crowded streets of Evo’s inner circles, there was always the weight of expectation—hybrids like him were meant to be either useful or ornamental. And if he could be neither, then at the very least, he should not be seen. He knew he thought about his wings a lot, but what else could he do? He had great big appendages on his back, heavy things that would only get bigger with time, and yet were a dead weight to him. Thinking of them as a curse and keeping them hidden was part of his life.
Mrs. Symmetry’s footsteps echoed ahead of him as she marched with purpose, her posture rigid, hands clasped in front of her. She had said little since fetching him, only the occasional glance to ensure he was keeping up. Grian, for his part, remained silent, twisting the edge of his sleeve between his fingers. The manor was unfamiliar in this direction, the air stale and thick with dust.
At last, she stopped before a door, rapping sharply against the wood. A low, tired voice from within gave permission to enter, and Mrs. Symmetry pushed it open.
“This is Grian, sir,” she announced.
The study was dimly lit, warmed only by the glow of a fire in the hearth. Shadows stretched long over the floor, and for a moment, Grian hesitated on the threshold. The man before the fire was not as monstrous as whispered stories suggested, but he was no less imposing. Mr. Slab’s wolfish features were severe—his high, crooked shoulders made him appear hunched even as he sat, and streaks of silver ran through his dark hair. His wolven ears flicked slightly at the sound of Mrs. Symmetry’s voice, but his sharp gaze was elsewhere, staring distantly at the fire. A hybrid, but, not a freak one.
“You may go,” he said, barely sparing the housekeeper a glance. “I will ring when he is to be taken away.”
Mrs. Symmetry hesitated for only a breath before giving a curt nod. Then she was gone, leaving Grian standing there, small and uncertain. His hands twitched at his sides, an instinct telling him to tuck his wings in tighter, to be still, to be quiet.
“Come here,” Mr. Slab commanded.
Grian obeyed, stepping forward. He was used to being examined like this—scrutinised like something that shouldn’t exist. He wasn’t a proper hybrid, not like his parents had been, and it showed. He was bright where they had been subtle, soft where they had been sharp. He was neither one thing nor the other, and it made people uncomfortable. He’d learned to live with that.
Mr. Slab studied him with a singular dark crimson eye, an dark cloth wrap covering the other. It didn’t quite seem to focus. He rubbed his forehead, looking him over with a weary sort of detachment.
“You are very thin,” he said at last.
Grian bristled slightly, though he kept his voice even. “I am getting stronger.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. He had felt less sickly since coming here, though that could have been from spending more time outside. He had never been allowed much freedom before.
Mr. Slab exhaled, glancing away, as if already losing interest. “I forgot you,” he admitted bluntly. “I had meant to send for a tutor. Or a governess. Someone.”
Grian stiffened. “Please don’t.”
That drew Mr. Slab’s attention back to him, his brows furrowing slightly.
“I mean—I don’t need one yet,” Grian corrected, keeping his tone measured, careful. “Please. Not yet.”
A pause. Then, more to himself than to Grian, Mr. Slab muttered, “That’s what the Goodtimes woman said.”
Grian hesitated, then asked, “Is she Gem’s mother?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“She knows about children,” Grian said. “She has six. She knows.”
Mr. Slab let out a quiet breath, shaking his head slightly. “What is it that you want to do, then?”
“I want to play outside,” Grian answered quickly. “I never liked it in Wynn, but it’s different here. The air is clean. I feel better when I run.”
He didn’t mention the way the wind felt when it moved through his feathers, how it whispered against his back when he let himself forget, just for a moment, that he couldn’t use them.
Mr. Slab watched him, his gaze unreadable.
“Mrs. Goodtimes said it would do you good,” he murmured. “Perhaps it will.”
“It makes me feel stronger,” Grian pressed, voice firm despite the unease curling in his chest. “I don’t do any harm.”
Mr. Slab’s mouth pressed into a thin line, his clear, single red eye he could just about make out, flitted down to Grian’s clawed nails. “You could not do any harm, a child like you.” Then, after a moment, he sighed. “You may do what you like.”
The words startled Grian, and he swallowed thickly, gripping the edge of his sleeve. “May I?”
“Of course you may,” Mr. Slab said, though his voice was rough with something unspoken. “I am your guardian. Though I am a poor one. I cannot give you time or attention. I am too ill and too busy, but I wish you to be… comfortable.”
Grian wasn’t sure if he believed that. But it wasn’t the worst thing he could have said.
Mr. Slab rubbed at his temple. “The Goodtimes woman insisted you needed freedom. I am inclined to agree.”
“She knows all about children,” Grian murmured.
“She ought to,” Mr. Slab said, glancing toward the fire. His expression shifted slightly. “She said… Mrs. Slab had been kind to her.” He seemed to be reminiscing, more than anything.
The name made something in him tighten. He said nothing more about it.
Instead, after a long silence, he exhaled. “Play outside as much as you wish. The grounds are vast. Go where you like.”
Grian hesitated, an idea forming, uncertain if he should speak it aloud.
“Is there anything you want?” Mr. Slab asked, as if the thought had only just occurred to him. “Books? Toys?”
Grian took a breath. “Might I…” He swallowed. “Might I have a bit of earth?”
Mr. Slab blinked, caught off guard. “Earth?”
“To plant seeds,” Grian clarified quickly. “To make things grow.”
For the first time, something in Mr. Slab’s expression shifted. His gaze softened, his posture easing.
“A bit of earth,” he repeated, more to himself than to Grian. His fingers twitched slightly, as though reaching for a memory just out of grasp.
When he looked at Grian again, there was something almost—kind—in his eye.
“You may have as much earth as you want,” he said. “Take it. Make it come alive.”
Grian’s breath caught. “May I take it from anywhere? If it’s not wanted?”
“Anywhere.” Mr. Slab straightened, looking tired once more. “Now go. I am done.”
He reached for the bell to summon Mrs. Symmetry, and Grian took a step back, unsure what to do with the warmth in his chest.
As Mrs. Symmetry arrived, Mr. Slab addressed her without looking up.
“I understand now what Mrs. Goodtimes meant. The boy must grow stronger before he begins lessons. Give him simple food. Let him run wild in the gardens.”
Mrs. Symmetry, for the first time since Grian had met her, looked almost pleased. “Aye, sir,” she said. “Susan Goodtimes is a sensible woman.”
Mr. Slab exhaled. “Take him away now. And send Bdubs to me.”
As Grian followed Mrs. Symmetry out of the room, he found himself gripping his sleeves a little less tightly. His heart still beat fast, but this time, it wasn’t entirely from fear.
When Mrs. Symmetry finally left him at the end of his corridor, Grian barely waited for her footsteps to fade before he turned and bolted back to his room. The rush of movement made his wings twitch beneath his heavy coat, an instinctive urge to stretch, to spread wide and catch the air, and for now, he was so nervously elated that he let them press against their confines in an attempt to escape.
Gem was already there, tidying up, her sharp ears twitching at the sound of his hurried steps. She straightened when she saw him, eyebrows raised.
“I can have my own garden!” Grian burst out, breathless from excitement, cheeks flushed with something other than cold for once. “I can choose where I want it! I won’t have a governess for a long time! Your mother is coming to see me, and I may even visit your cottage!” His words tumbled over one another in a rare show of enthusiasm. “He said a little boy like me couldn’t do any harm and that I may do what I like—anywhere!”
Gem’s face split into a grin, sharp canines flashing. “Well, that’s a fine turn, innit?” she said, delighted. “Told ya he weren’t all bad.”
Grian hesitated, shifting his weight. He didn’t know what to make of Mr. Slab. The man had been a storm of contradictions—sharp and tired, distant yet strangely soft in the end.
“He’s… nice,” Grian admitted at last, his voice quieter, more cautious. “His face is just… so miserable. Like he’s got too many heavy thoughts in his head.”
Gem’s expression softened. “Aye, grief does that,” she murmured, before shaking herself out of it. “But never you mind that now! What’re you still doin’ here? Thought you’d be runnin’ off to that garden of yours!”
Grian needed no further encouragement. He didn’t even bother to change—his coat was warm enough, though the weight of it sat uncomfortably on his shoulders, pressing his wings down too much for his liking. He hoped Gem would get to work on some wing holes for him—he hadn’t dared before, but here, where there were fewer people to sneer and fewer eyes to judge, he might actually be allowed to relax and show off his plumage, like the little Robin.
With that thought lingering, he hurried through the halls, down the twisting paths he had memorised by heart, and slipped through the ivy-covered door into his secret place.
It was empty.
The garden should not have felt so lonely, but it did. Grian’s breath hitched. He had expected to see Scar crouched by the roots of some overgrown tree, hands deep in the dirt, whispering strangely and wonderfully down to some little creatures. But the space was still, and all that greeted him was the quiet chatter of birds.
No Scar. No fox darting between the bushes. No mischief glinting in green eyes.
Grian swallowed down the odd pang of disappointment and stepped forward, searching. Under one of the trees, the gardening tools lay in a neat pile, untouched since Scar had last used them. His fingers twitched—he had been learning, slowly, how to use them, how to coax life from the earth, but it wasn’t the same alone.
Had he dreamt his new friend up? Was be some strange Moor creature instead, and not really a human person who wanted to be with him and revive a garden?
Then, movement caught his eye.
Something white fluttered on one of the standard rosebushes, pinned there with a long thorn. Grian stepped closer, heart rising, and plucked the paper free. It was rough, torn from the letter he had sent Gem to deliver.
Scrawled across it, in an uneven, bold hand, was a message:
“I will cim bak.”
And below it, a simple sketch—lines shaped into the rough form of a nest, a little bird curled safely inside.
Grian exhaled, a slow, relieved breath, his grip tightening around the paper, his nails accidentally puncturing a hole through the bottom of it.
Not a farewell. A promise.
Scar would come back.