Fig heard the caravan before she saw it. Voices calling out to each other, the harrumph of hoofed animals, the clank of metal on metal, the thud of metal on wood. When she, Wren, and Altair emerged from the forest she saw a mix of people bustling around wagons like a miniature town. Some of the wagons were new — pale and clean — but most were older: rusted at the joints, splattered with mud, patched with fabric of various weaves. Many had some sort of covering, though their construction varied greatly — arches of canvas, boxy squares draped in loose fabric, spare cotton hitched like a tent. Though she’d never had use for one, Fig understood wagons as an uncommon method to transport people along with their belongings. They were heavy, unwieldy. If the travelers who made it to the town near her home began their trip with one, it rarely survived to the end.

She had never seen so many in one place. This caravan was slow, then. Slow and heavily stocked.

Fig looked beyond the commotion for some familiar landmark. The forest stretched to the west and south. East, a grassland. North, a distant mountain range. A chill trickled down to her tailbone. She recognized none of it. One-way trip.

No matter. When she found her mother, she would navigate them home. Or perhaps they would build another. Her clearing was no home without her mother to cast her shadow upon it. Fig reached for Iraya’s memories with a drop of sugar at the back of her throat. The mountains — the silhouette matched. North it was.

Out in the open, Altair took the lead. Caravaners milled about their wagons making repairs, nursing small children, chatting. But all went quiet when they saw Fig. Her townspeople knew she came from the wood, but rarely watched her make the crossing. To see a stranger part the veil between darkness and light was an anomaly, a danger. She lowered her head.

Altair led them to the center of the loose ring of wagons. A broad-shouldered man with a wide chin and black hair to his shoulders knelt over the corpse of a boar half his height. His clothes fit him loosely and were well-worn at the joints. Fig noted that the knees of his trousers were messily patched with leather. Unlike her two companions, this man was no stranger to the wilds.

“Who is this?” His voice was deep like a toad’s croak.

Altair gestured at Fig. She straightened her back. “This is Fig. She wants to join the caravan.”

The man looked between Altair and Wren, his thick eyebrows knotting together. “I sent you two for firewood and you returned with a girl.”

Neither had anything to say to that.

He looked her over. She tried not to tense as she kept his gaze. “Where you headed?” he asked.

“North.”

“How far north?”

She looked past him to the mountains. They were so far they looked more like paint strokes on the sky than rock and stone. She’d never even thought of traveling so far. “As far north as you’ll take me.”

“Where you coming from?”

If others called her town a name, she didn’t know it. She’d never had to explain or describe her location. Besides, it was long behind her now. She thought of the demon’s lair and shivered. “Nowhere worth returning to.”

The man nodded. It was sufficient. She tried not to look too relieved. He turned again to her companions. “And you vouch for her?”

“She saved—” Wren began, but Altair shot him a look. “—us a lot of time,” he finished. “We got lost and she was able to guide us back.”

If they wanted to lie, who was she to interrupt? She caught Altair watching her from the corner of their eye.

The man frowned. “I’ve told you not to wander any deeper than you need. The tinder at the edge of the treeline burns just as bright as any other.”

It wasn’t true, but Fig saw no need to correct him. It seemed even practiced travelers were still strangers to the wood.

“What do you have to contribute, Fig?” the man asked, crossing thick arms.

She turned to the boar beside him. It was a mighty one, hairy with large tusks. It was missing an eye on one side but had two extra on the other. She felt for the demon’s trace and found it. She was sure from the caravaner’s easy stance that none of them could sense it. It seemed to them, the boar’s extra features were just another of the wilds’ strangenesses. A demonic stench wafted around the surface of the creature but did not penetrate any deeper — she did not think Lepocapra’s conniving would affect the meat.

Still, the animal had knife wounds in four places and its fur was dark with blood. The caravaners had struggled to kill it. That would make the flesh more difficult to separate in some places.

She knelt beside the carcass and extended a hand for the man’s short, curved skinning knife. He gave it to her with the ease of a person so large he felt no danger in it. Wordlessly, Fig gestured for him to hold the carcass by its back limbs and pull them apart. She made the initial cuts with the ease of practice. From ankle to pelvis on both legs, up the stomach, from foreleg to neck. The knife was sharp enough. She parted the skin from puckering white fat without trouble. As she peeled, she was careful to keep the soiled hair away from the meat. Skin fell away in heavy ribbons as she worked. To return to something familiar was a relief. She was a stranger to the world of side-eyes and authority.

The viscera beneath her hands began to sing even though she wasn’t listening for it. It hummed under her knife and opened the note as she parted flesh from fat. Fig did her best to numb herself to it; if there were some external sign of her listening, she didn’t want these people to see it. She remembered sharply the heavy chanting of the blood in the forest she’d heard those days ago, how the sound of it pulled her mind from her body. Now, she pushed all magic away and worked as she always had.

When she was done, the man whistled. Fig looked up to see Altair’s face wrinkled with disgust and Wren with his back to the scene.

The man laughed.

“What, you two don’t know where your dinner comes from?”

“It just,” Altair looked like they might vomit, “comes off?”

“Not usually. The girl’s got a gift.” The man turned to her, his dark eyes glinting beneath a sun-tanned face. “You butcher like that, you stay as long as you’d like. You can have Altair’s bed.”

“Dad,” Altair whined. Fig tried to suppress a smile. Though Altair was far more slender, the resemblance grew as she watched them together.

“Fine, she can use her own roll.” Altair’s father clapped Fig on the back with a large hand. “But you’re welcome to travel with us.”

She nodded. “If you have a bucket, we can gut next.”

Wren called over his shoulder, voice weak, “Oh, please don’t.”

Altair’s father laughed again, throaty and warm. His whole body shook with it. He was not a man afraid to fill space with his presence. “I’ll take over from here. You can call me Quil.” He offered Fig a rag with which to wipe her hand clean before shaking it. “The kid will give you the tour. We’re camping here for the night as we get this meat readied. Plan is to leave at first light. I’ll find you later to talk route. Rules of the caravan are simple: contribute as much as you take, look out for each other, do no one any harm. You do those things, you and me are right as rain.”

He watched her face as he spoke. She sensed in the hardened muscle of his arms that such violations were not taken lightly. He sensed in the openness of her stance she would not make him prove it. This was communicated clearly between them like animals. She bowed her head.

“Alright then. Welcome aboard.”

Having shirked their original task, Wren and Altair were back on firewood duty. Having been given no other instruction, Fig fell in line behind them. When they reached the edge of the treeline, Altair handed her a hatchet from their pack. As she took it they gripped longer than they should have, reluctant.

“You head left, we’ll go right. Meet back here by sunset,” they ordered.

Fig searched Altair’s pale face, twisted with discomfort. “What happened to the woods being dangerous?”

They scowled. “Obviously, you’ll be fine.”

Fig looked between them. “I’m not worried about myself.”

Wren grinned and gripped Altair’s elbow. “We’ll manage. I’ll watch out for them this time.”

She heard them muttering over their shuffling as she turned to leave. She only walked for a few minutes before turning to follow them. Her relationship with the caravan was fragile. If either of her new companions failed to return from this task it would cast suspicion on her. Yes. That was the reason for her shifting feet, she told herself. No other. She ducked easily behind trees and large bushes as she followed the two caravaners through the wood.

Altair’s brooding was freed from the cage of her company. They tossed their hands about while Wren watched his own steps with curiosity. “You don’t think it’s strange that some forest girl almost killed you, asked to join us, and can perfectly skin a dead animal?” Altair demanded.

“Oh, she’s definitely strange,” Wren pondered. Fig’s face flushed. “But she saved us. She seems lonely.”

Fig felt the pang of her missing mother like a burn across her chest. This was by far the longest they’d ever been apart. Longer than she’d ever conceived of them being apart. She didn’t realize her behavior transmitted this so clearly.

Wren continued, “Besides, you pulled a knife on her first. She wasn’t really going to kill me. She’s cautious, like you.” He poked Altair in the rib. “I notice you didn’t mention it to Quil.”

Fig would have killed them, if either had forced her hand. Her mother had kept her from killing, but trained her in every moment up to the act. She was meant to execute if her life were ever in danger; she was perfectly capable of it. Fig felt a pang of guilt at Wren’s trust.

“I didn’t want to give him heart troubles,” Altair mumbled. “And he’d never let us out on our own again if he knew what happened.”

Wren smiled. “I think you want to give Fig a chance. She grew up in the woods, of course she can skin things. We’re probably strange to her.”

They were. Though Fig had spent seasons traveling in and out of town observing the people there, the rituals of their relationships were cryptic, complicated. Wren and Altair were not related, not that Fig could discern, yet kept each other in closest confidence. They attended to tasks together, spoke together, were reprimanded — however lightly — together. She saw the slope of Altair’s shoulders relax when they were free from the caravan, her own company. She wondered, if the twists of fate were different, if in another life she and Iraya — the shadowy, adjusted reflection of Iraya in her mind — would have been like this. Inseparable. Comfortable. Companions not of circumstance but of affection.

“Just keep an eye on her,” Altair ordered.

“Oh, I think you’ve got that handled,” Wren snorted. Altair pushed his shoulders and they began to fight weakly.

Fig wasn’t sure what to make of that. It seemed they would keep to their word and search only the edge of the trees. She used the noise of their altercation to back away.

Fig waited beside a hefty stack of wood and tinder while the sun draped the trees in amber light. The leaves dripped a dark gold before Wren and Altair met her at their spot. Altair had gathered only a few shriveled logs. Wren’s hands were empty.

He smiled and waved, “There you are.” He admired her pile, “Oh, good haul.”

Fig eyed Altair’s measly collection. They avoided her gaze.

“We didn’t find much wood, but I did find these.” Wren opened his journal to the most recent entry. He had sketched the leaf patterns of three different ivies: one sloped, one pointed, one pronged. She recognized them all, though none were of any use. Wren tucked pressed greenery into the pages as he flipped to show her different angles and diagrams. “All three on the same tree. Have you ever seen that?”

“No,” Fig admitted.

“Fascinating,” he sighed. She didn’t see how. “Usually they compete with each other for space. I have a few theories as to why they’d grow together, but it’s a marvel.”

Altair was similarly disinterested. “It’s getting dark,” they interrupted.

Wren pouted, but not for long. It seemed difficult to suppress his spirit. He looked to Fig for permission to carry some of her logs and they split her share amongst the three of them.

“Why do you care so much for plants?” Fig asked.

“I’m studying them,” Wren replied.

“To what end?” If a plant had no practical use — in a poultice, garden, or recipe — it wasn’t worth dwelling on.

“How will an end appear if one does not pursue it?”

Fig spent the rest of the walk pondering this. What a strange boy. Altair only smiled.

The people of the caravan warmed to her as they watched her complete a task. The trio received a few nods and greetings as they wound their way through tented fabric and wagons to the center of the makeshift campground. Fig counted ten wagons and twice as many draught animals — horses, donkeys, deer, some tall, leggy birds. The sight of them tethered to the ground was deeply unpleasant. Her mother scoffed at such domestication as lazy and depraved. Fig gave the animals a wide berth.

Quil had assembled the beginnings of a fire. He clapped Altair on the back as they put down their tinder. “Good, you’re back in one piece. You and Wren throw logs on this. Some folk are ready with the meat when it’s hot enough.” He gestured at Fig. “You, with me.”

She followed him to the edge of camp to a tall, sturdy wagon. It was worn at the joints and splattered with layers of mud, but it held. The covered top was a thick canvas, once a deep blue but faded to the color of seawater. Inside it: barrels, crates, boxes — some ornamental, others barely functional. She saw piles of cloth, tools, spices packed in jars.

Quil pulled a box to the edge of the wagon to act as a table. He retrieved a roll of paper from an inner pocket of his worn leather vest and laid it flat. Connected blotches of the paper were painted and described with a loping, circular script. The rest was blank as if someone had spilled water upon the roll and the stain had formed an image only in part.

Fig had never seen anything like it. “What is this?”

“A gift,” he replied. “How much have you traveled the wilds?”

She pulled her eyes from the drawing to trace the deeply tanned lines of his face. She shook her head.

“Smart. It’s an unpredictable land. Once you’ve found something stable, most know it’s safest to stay put. A witch’s boon is the only way to keep this many people alive.”

Fig felt a burst of electricity at the word said so openly. She had wondered how the caravan was possible — she’d never heard of so many people, so many belongings, surviving a journey of any length. Vaani had told her the world was getting smaller. Now Fig could see it contract.

She examined the paper closely, unable to resist searching for its magic. She made sure to keep her eyes open as she listened. It took a moment, but there it was — the magic of the paper fluttered unevenly. It felt like tracing the path of a leaf falling in halting arcs, propelled by the wind.

Quil did not seem to notice her looking in any unusual way.

“This is a tool I procured from a seer. They called it a ‘map.’ It shows only the safest way forward, and adjusts as the land shifts.”

“Shifts?”

His eyes darkened. “You’re lucky to be unfamiliar. Deep in the wilds, things rarely stay as they are. You may leave a city on one path but find it completely unrecognizable on your return.”

Fig had never felt so frightened by land. She knew the woods well. Yet, she knew only the narrow radius her mother kept them to. She shivered.

Quil pointed at the inked landmarks with a thumb the size of three of her fingers. “We’re following this path, as much as we’re able. Small groups will part from the caravan here and here. I’m taking Altair here. Where you depart is of your own concern.”

She recognized none of the points he lingered on. The path snaked roughly upwards with many tight curves and illogical loops.

“You said ‘seer.’ What is that?”

“A kind of witch. They see the future, or so I’m told.”

Fig tried to camouflage her interest. Quil did not elaborate, so she leaned closer to the map. Its pictures were broadly painted but the script illegible.

“Only I can read it,” he explained. “A thief would find nothing but nonsense and death.”

He watched her to ensure she understood. Clever. A bind like that would keep his throat from being slit in the night. Fig had no idea such magic existed — had never seen it manifest so physically.

Quil seemed content with her silence. She searched the top of the map for any familiar shapes — snow-capped peak, arched gate. There was nothing so direct. There were the northern mountains pale with winter, and they were the only such terrain around. Fig pointed at them.

Quil whistled. “Good luck. You’re with us to the end, then.” The spot where he had marked Altair’s departure was just below it the mountains.

“What about Wren?” she asked.

“That one goes where he wants,” Quil sighed. He rolled the map back into the folds of his clothes. “His sister is a friend, though not a good enough friend that I’d turn us around to take him home. He’s almost certainly run off on her.” Though his tone was easygoing, Fig watched his shoulders tense. “Any other questions?”

“How long will it take?”

He shook his head. “No way to say. No interruptions? Two moons. Have I ever traveled with no interruptions? No.”

A chorus of voices called his name from behind them then. He rolled his neck. “Speak of it, and trouble is summoned. Find me if you need anything else.”

A witch’s boon. A seer. All Fig knew of witches before meeting Vaani was what they left in their wake — whispers, runaways, fear. Vaani herself, though immediately beloved, came to townspeople cloaked in illusion magic. She had misled Fig the same way she had misled them. To hear a man like Quil speak of a witch so openly, and with such gratitude, was yet another surprise. She wondered what he had done to earn such a boon.

Though his gift had saved these people so far, two moons was a lifetime. Who knew what could happen to her mother in that time? Despite her promise to Quil, Fig had already considered stealing one of the caravan’s animals and taking off on her own. They were many and burdened by supplies, they could likely not afford the break in resources it would take to catch her.

The map, however, changed things. Quil’s attention to danger was not a threat, but a warning. Fig’s knowledge of long distance travel and the land beyond the forest was thin. If this man truly had a witch’s magic to guide him along the safest possible path, two moons with him might be far faster than stumbling north to the mountains alone.

Fig wondered if she might be able to alter the map somehow, to reach for the magic and bind herself to it. The hole in her chest where her magic belonged pulsed. No. She heard the demon’s voice in her head as anger flared to the tips of her ears. She could not alter anything, only feel it. The lack sunk within her with undeniable finality.

With the caravan, then. North for two cycles of the moon.

Fig’s next hurdle was social. She watched Quil join a circle of women speaking quickly, their hands on their hips. She had never spent more than a morning in the company of so many people. They seemed generally less wary of her than her townspeople, but she did not know what to do with such openness. Speaking to Wren and Altair in the wood came with a confidence she shed at the treeline.

Fig followed the scent of roasting meat to the fire but hung back.

There, two dozen adults of the caravan spoke in small groups. It seemed some were families, others aligned in dress and mannerism. She saw several types of clothing she’d never before encountered — thick linen draped over heads and around necks, shirts with extra fabric that jutted out at the waist, pants with tapered legs like candlesticks. Those with the cleanest clothes kept to their own. The dirtiest congregated around the fire and intermingled. She saw more patches and worn edges, neat repairs in mismatching thread. She wondered how far these people had traveled. She did not know how far she had traveled herself.

The children were noticeably more social. Around eight had formed a circle of their own around a second fire, hastily assembled. Wren entranced them with some story punctuated with large gestures and sound effects. Altair watched, amused. They saw her first, but said nothing.

When Wren followed their gaze, he began to wave excitedly.

“Fig!” he called. “There you are.” He patted the ground beside him.

She walked over slowly. The youngest of the children assessed her with his thumb in his mouth. The rest looked at her expectantly, as if she were meant to pick up the thread of Wren’s tale.

“We were wondering,” he said, lowering his voice, “if you’ve ever met a witch?”

“No,” she lied, though surprised by the question. It seemed these people did not share the superstition she was accustomed to. She felt Altair’s gaze on her from across the fire. She kept her voice steady. “Have you?”

Wren drooped like a cut flower. “No.” He looked around the circle. “Has anyone?”

Roasted boar skin crackled between them.

A lanky girl, maybe ten years old, spoke first. Her hair was braided neatly though her shoes were too large for her. “One came into my mama’s shop. A mage, I think. They were looking for some special metal.”

Fig recognized the word as something Vaani had said once. These children knew much that she did not.

Wren sat forward. “Did they have their tattoos yet?”

“Mages don’t count,” a boy with red hair to his waist objected.

“Do so,” the girl countered. “They do magic, don’t they?”

“Yeah, but they have to study first.” The boy waved his hand in dismissal. “A real witch does magic as a weird baby.”

“I think witches can have normal babies,” another girl chimed in.

“No, when witches are babies they come out as bats. With wings and all.” The red-haired boy stood to flap his arms. “And the witch babies drink molten gold instead of milk.”

“Molten gold would burn anyone,” the first girl huffed. “And this mage was definitely a proper witch. They paid my mama for the metal with magic.”

“A witch baby can drink anything, even blood,” the boy sneered.

Wren tossed a pebble at him. “What kind of magic?” he asked the girl.

“Two boxes with lilies growing in them. You can talk into one and the person with the other will hear. Mama uses hers to talk to Papa.”

“Lilies?” Wren began scribbling notes in his book. “Are they alive? Does she water them? How do they fare with changes in climate?”

“She won’t let me touch them,” the girl sulked. “But it’s alive. And definitely magic.”

No one at the fire could deny that, even the red-haired boy.

Fig tried to camouflage her awe and fear. The life she had shed was insular in more ways than one — hidden from her mother’s past, yes, but also the layman’s present. Magic was part of the fabric of life for even those who made no contact with it, and their children besides. These caravaners had a confidence that made her townspeople’s terror feel opaque.

Wren was still writing. “Where did you live when this happened?”

“At the edge of the City of Stone,” the girl replied. “That was last winter.”

“Ness has been with the caravan for weeks,” Wren explained to Fig. “Her family moves around a lot. This is their second time traveling with Quil.”

“You lived in a city?” Fig’s curiosity overcame her nerves.

“A few of them.”

“What are they like?”

“Different. Safe. Strange.”

“How so?” Wren prodded.

“You don’t have to worry about what we worry about traveling. Beasts, wild animals, angry spirits, the land shifting, trees grabbing you, people grabbing you.” The girl, Ness, counted on her fingers as she spoke. “Things like that.”

Half of the circle visibly paled in the firelight. Altair’s voice shook when they asked, “You’ve seen all of that?”

Ness shrugged. “Sometimes my parents remember to cover my eyes. None of that with Quil, though.”

Fig brushed her hand against the hilt of her knife. Her mother’s paranoia had always pointed at a far-away danger, something that she never believed would truly touch them. It had taken this long to bear fruit. This girl, though — she was so young.

“It’s nice to feel protected,” Ness continued. “To know exactly what’s allowed and what’s not. To sleep in the same place every night and have drawers for my things. Having lots of other kids around is fun, too.”

“What was strange about the cities?” Wren asked.

“Well, it changes from place to place,” Ness pondered. “In Stone, the people there are so scared. Not every day, like out here, but in general. Most kids I’ve met have lived in the city their whole lives; they wouldn’t dare leave the walls, even just to play. It’s like that in a lot of places, actually. Almost all the cities I’ve lived in had big walls.”

Fig imagined a large, walled city in the desert, each brick glistening a shifting gold like the embroidered tail of Vaani’s dresses.

“That’s why you haven’t seen many witches,” the red-haired boy interrupted. “Everyone knows you can’t trap one. They’d turn into a mole and dig under the wall. Or grow wings and fly over the top.”

“Or turn into a ghost and go through it,” a smaller boy added. “I hear there are witches who are half dead, half alive.”

“There are witches who go in the cities,” a freckled girl said, combing her hair. “Rosehip the Sonorous Crystal travels all the wilds to perform.”

“The lady from that poster you found? She’s not a witch, she’s a singer,” the small boy retorted.

The freckled girl pointed her comb at him angrily. “She’s both. They say her music is so magical, you can see it.”

He laughed. “You just read that off the bottom.”

“Why—” Fig refocused on Ness as the other children argued, “does your family leave the cities if they’re so much safer?” She remembered Vaani’s deep curiosity on the subject.

Ness tugged at the hem of her shirt. “Mama always gets a bad feeling. Last place we lived she says I stopped getting taller.”

Fig re-examined the girl. She had a short torso but long speckled legs like a fawn. She didn’t have much in the way of curve or softness, all sharp angles and bony youth.

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

The circle was quiet once more.

Ness crossed her arms over her chest. “It was nice there. Good food, good business. Sunny every day. But Mama never had to cut our hair or nails. We left.”

This strangeness flickered between them. The children accepted it with a silent resignation. Fig felt a twinge of pity for her townspeople. What had they, in turn, left behind?

The red-haired boy squished stray sparks from the fire beneath his feet. “My uncle sent for my family from the City of Falls. He moved there last year.”

“My uncle died,” the freckled girl whispered. “We’re taking his ashes to some lake in the north. Pa thinks it’s too dangerous, but it was the last thing he asked for before he passed.”

Fig watched Wren look over to Altair, who turned their head away. Their gray hairs glowed almost white in the firelight.

“Where are you traveling, Fava?” Ness asked.

“It’s Fig,” she corrected. Each time she said it, something within her solidified. “I’m meeting family near the mountains.”

She received a few nods of understanding. It seemed family was something all travelers understood.

“If you were a witch,” the red-haired boy stood, pointing at each person in turn, “what kind of witch would you be?” He pressed a thumb to his chest. “I’d shoot fire out of my hands. And howl at the moon. And shapeshift into a snake.”

A boy with a puckering pink scar up their arm rolled his eyes. “Snakes don’t have hands.”

The red-haired boy flushed but persisted. “When I was a snake I’d shoot it out of my mouth.”

“I would be the most beautiful dancer you’d ever seen,” the freckled girl sighed. “I’d dance on treetops and mountains and over the lake. I’d float in the air while I danced and everyone would give me lots of treasure.” She demonstrated by flicking her ankles to conjure the illusion of weightlessness. A few children clapped.

“I’d want to be a seer,” Ness decided. “I want to know what’s going to happen. Mama would get rich from my dreams of the future. And I’d travel through all of your dreams to see what you’re thinking about.” She wiggled her hands around the circle, laughing.

“Is that seer magic?” Fig asked. “Going in other people’s dreams?”

“Oh, yes,” Ness replied. “A friend of mine lived in a village with a seer at its center. Everyone would line up to ask her questions and she would interpret their dreams.”

Fig sucked her teeth around the sugary sweetness of Clover’s magic. So she was a seer, then. Visiting her in the night.

“I’d banish spirits,” the boy with the scar whispered. Everyone quieted to hear him. “I’d bash through them with a club.” It stayed quiet.

Fig had only encountered one spirit in her life – a man. He had looked so real at first. A blind traveler feeling through the dawn-ripe forest with his hands. She remembered how empty his expression had seemed. How pale and flat in the early morning light. Her mother had thrown a rock through him. His body flickered like a shadow interrupted by a moth fluttering around its flame. He didn’t seem to notice. Mother and daughter had backed away and returned home for the day. A wanderer, her mother had said. Those lost in life can be lost in death.

Perhaps each member of the circle was lost to a memory. When someone spoke again, it was only in a whisper. The conversation picked up again, this time in smaller groups.

“What about you, Fig?” Wren probed. “What kind of magic would you do?”

She felt the emptiness between her ribs. It spread to the tips of her fingers, to the rounded edges of her bones. She was hollow. Like a doll carved from wood and split into pieces, stuck back together. The stale air inside her rattled. “I like the dancing one,” she said weakly as she pressed her pointer fingers against the scabs on her thumbs. “Probably that.”

Wren only smiled. The children’s traded visions rose with the smoke from the fire to cloud the star-strewn sky. Fig watched it, ignoring the music of blood beneath her skin.