“Oh, there were people who didn’t want to be where they were, and the world was getting so big that the Baker was spending all her time—we had the First Confectioner then, and she was very busy doing sugar work—fixing things. So she opened all the doors she could, and told the people who were scared or hungry or lonely or bored that if they came through, they’d never be able to go back, because the doors wouldn’t open for them, but that she could give them candy hearts to make them a part of this world, and then they could stay here and be happy and fix all the things she didn’t want to fix, forever.” Rini shrugged. “A lot of people came, I guess. She made them new hearts, and they found places to be, and they made homes and planted fields and built ships, and now there’s me, and my father has a candy heart and my mother had a meat one, and they both loved me just as much as the moon loves the sky.”

“The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” said Christopher, almost wonderingly.

Cora, who had never considered that there might be less personal doors, doors that swallowed entire populations whole—with or without their consent—chewed anxiously on her lip, and kept walking. She was getting tired of walking. It had never been one of her top ten ways to exercise. It might not even be top twenty, although she wasn’t sure there were twenty ways to exercise worth considering, unless she started counting every swim stroke and every dance style as a different category. Worse yet, this was necessary walking. She couldn’t complain if she wanted to.

(And even though she wanted to, she never wanted to. If the fat person was the first one to say “hey, I’m tired” or “hey, I’m hungry” or “hey, can we sit down,” it was always because they were fat, and not because they were a human being with a flesh body that sometimes had needs. Maybe Christopher had the right of it, going someplace where people had figured out how to do without the fleshy bits, where they would be judged on their own merits, not on the things people assumed about them.)

Christopher stopped, putting one hand up before bending forward and resting both hands on his knees, flute jutting out at a jaunty angle. “Just a second,” he said. “Almost died a few hours ago. Need to catch my breath.”

“It’s okay,” said Cora magnanimously. She kicked her left foot back and reached down to grab it, pulling it up into a stretch. The muscles in her thigh protested before they relaxed, letting her work out the incipient knots.

When she glanced up again, Kade was looking at her, impressed.

“You’re more flexible than I am,” he said.

“Swimmer,” she said. “I have to be.”

Kade nodded. “Makes sense.”