“Father forbids me from speaking to anyone,” Yuna said. Never draw attention to yourself, Yuna, or trouble will find you. You must be a shadow.

“Why? Because you’ll give bad advice about sword repairs too?”

Yuna snorted, nearly a laugh. A few more fang-like seeds rained down from the biting hemlock, ticking on the stone path.

“I actually thought there was a rakkon trying to dig through the wall,” he explained. “You don’t look like a rakkon.” He chuckled. Rakkons were the size of puppies, with inch-long fangs and claws that could tear through a roof. They loved butter more than anything. They’d tear a hole through a house just to find the butter crocks in the cellar. “I’m Himil. And that was my hand you grabbed.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuna said.

“Your name is Sorry?”

“No! My name is Yuna. I’m sorry I grabbed your hand. I was clearing away the broken stone to repair the wall.” She was sweating now. She had not spoken to anyone this much since she couldn’t even remember. She’d probably exchanged fewer words with the rice merchant from whom she’d purchased rice weekly—for years. It was wrong, it felt wrong, and yet . . . it felt wonderful. And easy. She pressed her lips together, ready to flee back to the house, when Himil spoke again.

“And I have been ordered to burn away this hemlock that’s spread onto the property.”

“Oh. Yes, it’s growing marvelously in the western sunlight. But you shouldn’t burn it.”

“Why not?”

She nearly snorted again. Didn’t everyone know that biting hemlock regenerated after a good burn only to grow to twice the size afterward?

“Because—”

“Yuna!” Father called from the doorway of the glass growing house. “Where are you?”

Without a goodbye, Yuna jumped up and grabbed her basket. As she scuttled along, the wind blew in her hair and a hand peeped out from the hole in the wall. Himil’s hand.

It was either waving her goodbye or asking for her to return. She didn’t know what to think about that. But her face grew warm at the gesture.

That night, as Yuna slept on her pallet, Zizi the scorpion bird flew circles above her head, chirping. It didn’t matter, because Yuna couldn’t sleep. Zizi landed on her forehead, preening her flaming orange wings. Her scorpion hook bobbed merrily between her tail feathers. Yuna was never stung, because she never gave Zizi any reason to sting her.

Yuna could not stop thinking of Himil. She had touched a boy’s hand today, and the boy hadn’t exclaimed in fear, or protest, that he’d die from her touch. And Yuna hadn’t suddenly erupted in blisters across her fingertips. With accidental effort, they had weakened two myths, watering them down like a poor man’s soup.