He produced soft, cotton strands and began to bandage up her cleaned wounds. Laira lifted her bowl of tea and sipped, letting the warmth flow through her. For the first time in many days, she didn't hurt.

"But . . . proud? Grandpapa, it's a disease. Like the one infecting in my feet."

"Nonsense!" Eranor tossed his beard across his shoulder. "Utter rubbish. Our enemies say such things, and perhaps you believed them. Sweetness . . ." He held her hands, kneeling before her, and gazed into her eyes. "You are not cursed. You are not diseased. You are blessed with a great gift from the stars. You are magic. You are wonderful."

More than the tea, the coziness of this cave, or the healing ointments, those words changed something in Laira. As Eranor had drawn the pus from her wounds, those words seemed to draw out all the pain, fear, and shame from inside her. She found herself trembling, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Oh, dear child," said Eranor, his expression softening. He pulled her into his arms, and she embraced him, weeping against his chest.

"Thank you," she whispered as he smoothed her hair. "Thank you, Grandpapa."

When the sun set, and only the light of the brazier filled the cave, Eranor stepped outside into the night for his guard shift. Laira asked to guard too, but father and son raised their eyebrows and told her to stop being so silly.

Jeid cooked a stew of hares, mushrooms, and wild tubers. It was the best meal Laira had ever eaten. She sat wrapped in a great, warm cloak of bear fur, her body washed and rubbed with sweet-scented creams. For the first time since her mother had died, she was clean, well fed, and clad in warmth. Her eyes would not stop stinging.

I am magic. I am wonderful.

She wanted to tell Jeid about all her pain—about how her father had exiled her, how Zerra had burned her mother, how the chieftain had shattered her jaw and starved her, how she had crawled through the forest for so long, nearly dying. But she could bring none of it to her lips, and Jeid did not probe her, only fetched her clear water to drink, more food to eat, and even sang an old song to soothe her.

That night they lay upon soft fur rugs. Laira watched the embers for a while, feeling warm and safe. She had not slept in a shelter since her mother had died, only in the dog pen, huddling and cold.

This is safety. This is warmth. This is home.

Soon Jeid was snoring softly, and the sound comforted Laira. She wriggled a little closer to him, feeling the warmth of his body, and lay beside him.

Your twin hurt me, she thought, but you won't. You protect me.