Night Two
Effie had made raspberry tea and laid out Calliope’s favorite hair ribbon — lavender silk, hand-made by her mom, stitched with bees. It was almost breakfast.
The house was too quiet.
She called once, then twice. Her voice didn’t echo, didn’t land. Just hung there.
Effie stood in the doorway to her daughter’s room, one hand on the frame, the other pressed against her mouth.
The bed was still made. Callie’s shoes were gone.
Maybe she’s in the coop, she thought.
Maybe she snuck out early to feed the geese.
She does that sometimes. It’s not unusual. Haymitch always says she's got more goose sense than most people.
But the geese had already been fed. The coop door was shut. No footprints in the dew except her own.
Haymitch looked up as she stepped outside, her robe still hanging open, slippers soaked through.
“She’s not here,” Effie said, voice brittle.
His brow furrowed. “You check the bathroom?”
“She’s not here, Haymitch.”
And something in her voice must have cracked open, because he set his coffee down without another word and walked out into the meadow.
The sun was barely risen. The grass glittered with cold in the February winter. Effie stood on the porch, unable to sit, unable to move.
She tried to breathe.
Tried.
Because the truth was, people vanished.
Children vanished. Effie had seen it. Names flashed in newspapers. Girls gone after breakfast. Kidnapped. Hidden. Used. Gone.
She pressed a hand to her throat and whispered Calliope’s name like a prayer.
*
Haymitch was calling now. Louder and louder.
“Callie Charm!” Effie heard him yell. “Calliope, honey! Answer me!”
No answer. Just the wind.
She couldn't take it anymore.
Effie stepped into the grass.
It clung to her slippers. Soaked her. She moved like someone walking through dream water. Slow, thick, unbelieving.
She remembered the nights. How they’d brought her food through a slot in the wall. How they’d let her hair mat. How her fingers had cramped with dirt. How her voice had gone unused for days. No one had called her name. She had become a silent thing.
She had sworn —sworn— that no one would ever do that to her daughter.
And now she was gone.
It wasn’t until Haymitch turned back toward her that Effie realized she’d dropped to her knees. The world tilted. Her skin went cold.
“I can’t breathe,” she said softly. “Haymitch, I can’t- she’s gone- I can’t--”
He reached her fast, held her upright.
“She’s not gone,” he said into her hair. “She’s not.”
“You don’t know that,” she gasped. “You don’t... I can’t do this--”
“Effie.” His voice was low, firm, grounded. “Look at me. Look at me.”
Her eyes met his. Wide. Wild.
“She is not in danger. She's nine. And stubborn. And probably asleep with her head on a goose.”
And just like that —his voice still warm, still steady, he looked up. Searching. And his eyes softened, his whole expression softened.
“There.”
Effie followed his hand, pointing, her heart still racing, her lungs still fighting her.
At the edge of the meadow, under the willow tree, curled in the grass and flanked by Lemoncello, one of her geese, was Calliope Charm. A nest of yellow curls, a book still open in her lap, sleeping soundly with her head on the goose.
Effie couldn’t move.
Haymitch stood up.
He came back carrying her, nine years old and far too tall to be carried, but still boneless with sleep. Her arms flopped around his neck, her head resting on his shoulder.
“Probably went out before dawn,” he muttered, brushing hair from her face. “Must’ve laid down and passed out. She’s fine.”
Effie reached out, touched her daughter’s cheek. Warm. Safe.
She thought she might throw up.
*
Later, when Callie was awake and drinking tea at the kitchen table like nothing had happened, Effie knelt beside her and took her hands.
“You must leave a note,” she said. “If you leave early. If you go anywhere. Do you understand me?”
Calliope Charm blinked.
“I just wanted to watch the geese wake up.”
“And if something had happened? If you’d been bitten by a snake, or... or gotten sick, or...”
“Mama.” Callie frowned. “I was right there.”
Effie’s throat burned. Yes, but what if you hadn't been?
“I can’t lose you,” she whispered.
Calliope tilted her head. “But you didn’t.”
She leaned forward, kissed Effie’s forehead.
“I’m right here.”
Effie didn’t sleep that night, either.
But Calliope did. And Effie stayed beside her, fingers threaded with her daughter’s, breathing in her quiet, steady dreams.