Winter Sparrow by Estevan Vega Page B

it breathe out in the open for a bit; but what if he got angry? What if he had drunk too much last night and the booze hadn’t yet filtered out of him? And what if there was still enough left to get him all levels of worked up? She was ill-equipped to handle that kind of confrontation.
What else was there? Had this creep sweet-talked her, promised her riches, to live in his fantastic house? Well, what if she didn’t want it?
But then a startling reality shook her nearly off balance. Her eyes had found a diamond glistening like magic on her left ring finger. It had a white-gold band. How had she not felt it before? The diamond, a solitary stone, sat at the center of the flawless band.
“That man…is my husband?” she said, realizing that the statement evaporated off her lips more like a question.
The bedroom suddenly turned cool enough for Mary to see her own breath. She watched its frosty trail drift farther away from her, carried away by a breeze. Black curtains whipped; the doors leading to a balcony had been left open. The balcony. It was different yet familiar.
Her car. Of course. She couldn’t be losing her mind, she just couldn’t be. Her Pathfinder, rugged and run-down as it was, had to be parked outside in the driveway. It just had to be.
Mary glided from the spot in front of the mirror. In seconds she was looking over an immense courtyard that resembled a maze. The view from this balcony was wondrous. And the flutters in her chest subsided when she saw the vehicle parked exactly where she just now remembered she had left it.
Last night. Her mind paced. Yes, last night.
Her vehicle was in perfect condition. Why, then, did she have a hiccup of a thought that it may have been destroyed? She wanted control of this feverish polarity. Mary shuddered and fearfully locked her arms together, a breaking sensation draping her bones.
Off to one side of the courtyard, she saw a garden with an awe-inspiring collection of roses, petunias, and chrysanthemums, to name a few. Her eyes sparkled at the sight, but the unkind wind forced them shut again. Not for long. The pulse of the garden had a certain mesmerizing, undeniable quality. She longed to walk inside it.
Mary rushed out of the room barefoot. Down the long hallway she flew, confusion spreading through her organs like a tormented butterfly. If she were indeed married to the man in the bedroom, why did she not recall the ceremony? Had there even been a proper ceremony, or had she merely fulfilled his midnight lust?
Scratching her neck, Mary descended the stairs. She couldn’t shake a familiar feeling, like she’d been in this house before, or one just like it. Come to think of it, should she even be calling this place a house? It was a mansion, if ever she saw one, and at the foot of the wide staircase, there were intricately carved marble birds. Crows. The detail in their wings and eyes and beaks was unparalleled. And the way their claws gripped each stone perch sent an eerie drip down her shoulder blades. The closer she gazed, the more she felt that the eyes were a startling black echo.
The garden.  
She walked outside. Mary sought escape in the free, open space. Taking her first steps through the wrought-iron gate, Mary absorbed the sensitivity of the stone path and the grooves binding each pattern together. She was also aware of her knuckles cracking because she’d made a tense fist. But if she could just calm her thinking for a moment, maybe it was possible to get lost here in the sanctuary of the flowers.
How these blooming masterpieces had remained so unstained by the encompassing winter world was nothing short of magic. How had the frost not filched their scent? How had the sleet not corrupted their emerald spines?
Carelessly, she tried to grip a rose by the stem, but a thorn pierced her thumb. It stung but only a little. Perhaps she’d grown up with a tolerance for pain. Mary lapped up the red sliver anxiously, noticing the cut was deeper than she first