The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)

by Rachel Gillig

Had the fly been capable of reason, it might have concluded it was better to die in the clutches of a spider than be the subject of this particular gargoyle’s attentions. But the fly could not speak, and thus uttered no complaint. It just kept on buzzing, and the gargoyle kept on talking—

There was no telling what tapestry the future would weave for us.

The batlike gargoyle stooped down low, transfixed by a gowan flower. He plucked it. Held it up to Aisling Cathedral’s looming edifice. “Which is more intricate?” he mused. “The designs of men, trying to reach gods, or that of gods, trying to reach men?”

“Did that man just call me foul, Bartholomew?” “He mistook you for a bird.” “An even greater slander!” The gargoyle wagged a stone finger at the scribe’s stall. “I shall destroy his little house.”

“Have you been stealing, gargoyle?” “Yes,” he said with delight. “I’m rather good at it. I was caught only twice. But you—you look stern. Have I behaved ignobly again by your childish standards?”

There, the house mother slept through my knocking, and her dog ventured out in her stead. The mutt chased us for three city blocks. All the while the gargoyle shouted, his voice ringing through the streets, “Fear not, Bartholomew! Every day has its dog.”

We fell in a tangle, my foot in his ear, his left wing lodging under my ribs. “How undignified.” The gargoyle let out a whimper. “Did anyone see me fall?”

“What fun! What a wonderful display of valor on my part.”

“There aren’t ghosts in my words, Six. No rot hiding behind the scent of flowers. When I insult you, you’ll know it.”

“When you do the right thing for the wrong reason, no one praises you. When you do the wrong thing for the right reason, everyone does, even though what is right and wrong depends entirely on the story you’re living in. And no one says they need recognition or praise or love, but we all hunger for it. We all want to be special.”

Thunder rumbled overhead. “That sounds like a storm,” Maude said. “Pishposh.” The gargoyle stuck his nose to the wind. “I can always smell it when it’s going to rain. The thunder was but a collision of clouds.” It began to pour twenty minutes later.

“I am a battlefield of admiration.” He nodded at the horizon. “I cannot decide which I like best. The sunrise, or the sunset. They are like life, and her quiet companion, death.”

“You can never really go home.”

I reached into my hair. Took off my shroud. Held it out over the edge of the cliff. When the wind took it in its teeth, I did not resist. I simply . . . let go.

And then they were like all the other things I’d dared to love. Gone.