Hawthorn by Carol Goodman

into the brightening air. I heard Helen gasp. The drear gray air of ruined Faerie had turned into a shimmering iridescent rainbow, like the skin of a soap bubble expanding in the sun and then—
    Bursting!
    The shock of the explosion knocked us off our feet. I barely had time to grab Helen’s hand and then we were flying backward, speeding through time as if we’d been shot out of a cannon. Surely no one could survive this. Poor Raven. He had tried his best. I hoped he never knew that he’d blown us to bits.
    We hit the ground so hard my teeth clicked together and I bit my tongue. I could feel my bones rattling—but at least I still
had
bones. I opened my eyes and saw Helen’s face, her blonde hair wild, her blue eyes wide as saucers—but alive! And she was pointing to something, her mouth working to form a word.
    I snapped my head in the direction she pointed. A marble statue stood on the top of a hill above us. It looked like a statue of Atlas holding up the world, arms straining against a terrible weight, neck tendons standing out, legs braced. Only this Atlas had wings stretched out holding back invisible walls. Had Raven left this statue here to hold the door for us? I struggled to my feet, my legs weak as a newly hatched chick’s, pulling Helen up with me, without taking my eyes off the statue. Blue veins stood out in the marble just as if they carried blood. The face was carved so finely I could make out the shadow of eyelashes on downturned eyes and the tracks of tears on the face and beads of sweat standing out on the forehead. The marble was so smooth I couldn’t help but reach my hand out and lay it on the bare straining chest . . .
    Where a heart beat.
    â€œRaven!”
    The eyelids flickered, scattering the white dust that held them down, lips parted, cracking the silt of time that lay over him, trying to form a word.
    â€œGuh.”
    â€œHe telling us to go through,” Helen said. “He can’t let the door close until we’re on the other side. We can squeeze through under his wings.”
    Just barely. When Raven had held the door for me once before, he had been standing. He may have started out standing this time but the pressure of holding open the door hadbrought him down to his knees. It was crushing him. How long had he been here? Hadn’t he brought us back to the moment when he opened the door? I didn’t have time to figure it all out. Only when we were through the door would he be able to let go. I pushed Helen through the gap under his left wing—the right one was nearly crushed to the ground—and then crawled through after her, wriggling flat on my belly.
    As soon as I was through I turned over and faced Raven. On this side of the door his back was covered with the green dust of pine pollen. He might have been a tree stump, the remnant of a once great oak slowly disintegrating back into the forest floor. I wrapped my arms around his back and pressed my face against his neck, my lips to his ear.
    â€œYou can let go,” I said. “I’m here now.”
    He shuddered, a convulsion so violent I thought he might break apart as he fell backward into my arms. I held on to him as tightly as I could, unfurling my wings and wrapping them around him, repeating over and over again, “I’m here now, I’m here now,” as he shook and shook. Helen sat nearby, her arms wrapped around her knees.
    â€œRun to Blythewood and get help. Tell them to send to Ravencliffe for Wren.” If anyone could heal Raven it would be his mother, Wren, who had tended to his wounds after he’d been tortured by van Drood.
    Helen looked at me so wide-eyed I thought she’d lost her senses traveling back through time, but then she asked, “Are you sure we’re back in our own time? Why does Raven look like he’s been holding the door for a hundred years?”
    I looked around the woods, which were green and full