Yesterwary

Demi pulled a robe from the bedpost and hurried down the stairs, rushing toward the sound of frantic knocking.

“Hello? Hello?!”

She swung open the door to a hysterical and out-of-breath Moira in nothing but a dressing gown on the front porch.

“What’s wrong?” Demi asked, ushering her inside. Bastian cleared sleep from his eyes as he slouched down the steps.

“It’s Michael,” Moira gasped between breaths. “He’s… he’s…”

“He’s what?”

Moira grasped her chest and slumped down onto the loveseat, trying to catch her breath, and handing over a folded piece of wrinkled paper. Demi opened it to find a drawing of a fallen dragon, blood-spattered on a bed of clouds. Beneath the drawing, in untidy handwriting, it read, “And she was never sad again.”

“This was on his pillow,” Moira huffed.

“I don’t understand,” Bastian said, inspecting the paper with confusion.

“He’s gone. Michael ran away.”

“No,” Demi said weakly, leaning against the not-piano to ward off the dizziness that still followed her. “Not away… To. He ran to slay my dragon.”

“What?” Moira asked, confused.

“When you visited me the other day, he told me a story he’d written. About fighting off dragons to bring happiness back to the princess. He thinks he’s my prince. He’s trying to save me from my own sadness.”

“What on earth…” Moira huffed. “Where, exactly, does he think he’s going to find a dragon?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “In the story, the dragon lives in the—” Demi’s gut twisted and sank as she remembered that the dragon’s cave had been in the mist.

“What is it? The dragon lives where?!” Moira screeched.

“…I think he went into the fog.”

Moira exploded out the door, heading back toward the orphanage, and rambling something about stories and hope and dreams being no good for children, no good at all!

Demi stared at Bastian for a long while, then used all that was left of her strength to dash for the stairs.

“What are you doing?”

“I have to go after him,” she called from the top of the stairs, grasping at the hallway wall for stability.

“You’re in no state to be traipsing through the fog,” he said, not having to move very quickly to keep up. “You shouldn’t even be out of bed. And you don’t know what you’ll find out there.”

“Michael needs me.” Demi stumbled into the bedroom, and dug a duffle bag from atop the wardrobe. She stared at the closet for a moment, unsure of how to pack for a hike into the fog. From behind her corseted coat, she retrieved a sequined, black dress with one ripped sleeve, and stared down at it as she cradled it in her hands. She had nearly forgotten it even existed.

“Michael is probably—”

“Dead?” she asked, folding the dress into the bottom of the bag, even though she doubted the fog would call for ragged formal attire. “I refuse to believe that. I’m going after him. End of story.”

“At least wait until you’re stronger,” Bastian pleaded.

“There’s no time.” She slipped out of her robe and struggled to pull on a pair of ruffled, gray trousers beneath her half-dress.

“Just for the night, then,” he said, placing a strong hand on her waist, as she wobbled on one foot. “Please? Just rest for the night…”

Demi eyed Bastian over her shoulder. She wanted to be strong, to tell him no, but she found no other choice than to give into the weakness that was radiating throughout her bones, and muscles, and entire being.

“Okay,” she whispered, latching the bag shut and leaving it at the foot of the bed. “I’ll stay for the night.”