Free Wild Blue Yonder (The Ceruleans: Book 3) by Megan Tayte

snow.
    My heart stilled in my chest.
    ‘What did you say?’
    He was silent.
    ‘Jude, what did you say?’
    He returned to his twig, but now he was scratching at the
ground in jerky movements.
    ‘ We’re just chosen?’
    His scratches became harsh digs.
    I stared at him. I didn’t want to ask the question. But I
had to.
    ‘Who, Jude?’ I whispered. ‘Who is it I’m supposed to make
these babies with?’
    He said nothing, only scraped in big, sweeping movements
that suggested a lot of pent-up emotion.
    I was about to shout at him, to demand he look at me, speak
to me, when my eyes, staring at the snow in which Jude was fiddling, found
order in the chaos of deep, long scratches. Eight thick lines of earth standing
out in the snow formed a single explosive word:
    ME.
     

11: ONLY EVER HIM
     
    I didn’t say another word to Jude on that frigid, darkening
cliff. I stood, took one last, longing look at the suggestion of a shape on the
horizon, turned and walked back to the house. I didn’t run. I didn’t hurry. I
focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on the beautiful simplicity
of being the first to lay footprints in the snow.
    I didn’t turn to see whether Jude was following me. I didn’t
care.
    In the house, I stamped off the snow from my shoes, nodded
in acknowledgement of Nathaniel’s cheery hello and climbed the stairs. Inside
my room, I locked the door and checked that the connecting door was locked, and
then I turned on every lamp and shut the thick velvet curtains. I ran a bath
with water hot enough to cloud the bathroom in steam. When the water was
flooding out of the overflow, I turned off the taps, stripped off my clothes
and stepped in. The water stung, but I ignored the pain. I lay back until every
part of me but my face was immersed.
    I waited for the shivering to stop.
    *
    An hour later, pink-skinned and clad in pyjamas and robe, I
curled up in an armchair with a herbal tea, and I stared at a painting on the
wall, and I thought.
    I thought, I don’t like that Evangeline.
    I thought, Sienna would hate it here.
    I thought, I’m not a breeder. I’m a person .
    I thought, All this time, that’s what Jude wanted from
me.
    I thought, Who gives up their babies?
    I thought, I never knew I could be this angry.
    I thought, Luke. Luke. Luke.
    Luke! The letter he had written to me; in all the upset, I’d
forgotten.
    I launched myself off the sofa and rushed to the bathroom,
to the laundry bin in which I’d shoved the day’s clothes. The cardigan was on
top, and the envelope, when I pulled it out, was only slightly crumpled. I
smoothed it down and took it to the sofa. Raising the paper to my nose, I
inhaled, hoping to catch some distant scent of Luke – sea air and surfboard wax
and cinnamon. But I smelled nothing.
    Carefully, I slid a finger along the opening and I pulled
out the sheet within. His letter was longer than mine and handwritten also, in
large, sloping letters. My heart contracted painfully as I realised this was
the first time I’d seen Luke’s handwriting – the months we’d had together had
been too short.
    I read it slowly, savouring every curve of every letter.
    Dear Scarlett,
    I’m writing this in advance of Jude coming back, so I
have time to think what to write.
    That is, I hope Jude is coming back. He did promise.
Still, I struggle to trust him, you know that.
    I hate that you’ve gone with him. But what else could I
do? If I could have saved you, I would have – you know that, right? If I could
have come with you… Scarlett, I would have.
    I hope you’re okay, wherever you are, in that place. That
place Jude can come back from, but you can’t – what is that?
    Sorry. I hate this.
    I’ve spent all day thinking of what to write, and now I’m
here, putting down the words, I’m lost. There are no words to tell you how I
feel.
    That night – dawn – on the clifftop, when you
    I can’t write it. Not that word.
    I’m making a total meal of this. You know me.