“The lost one?” I echoed. It had been a long time since she had told me a mountain story, and she knew I was playing innocent in order to draw that tale out of her.

She was quiet for a moment, her focus seemingly on her knitting. But then she began to speak, her voice rich and vibrant.

“Over a hundred years ago, there was a woman who lived in the mountains, alone in a small house in the city of Ulla. In her younger years, she was a faithful lady-in-waiting for the duke’s sister, but as she grew older, she preferred solitude, and she listened to the wind that blew in the morning and the evenings. Stories were wrapped within such gusts, and they kept her warm on the darkest of nights. She lacked for nothing and wanted nothing more.

“But a rap sounded on her door one summer midnight, when the moon was full and the wind was quiet and the air was warm. When she answered it, no one was there. No one, until she heard a wail and realized a large basket had been left on her stoop. And in the basket was not one baby but two.

“The woman had never cared for children. They were loud, messy, fragile, demanding. They were wholly dependent on their caregiver, and she did not want to be fastened to such responsibility. But nor could she be heartless and leave the babes on her porch.

“She brought them into her home. Two boys, perhaps only a month old. Ugly and floppy, and she did not know how to hold them. But hold them she did, and their weeping eased. She spoke to them, and they smiled at the sound of her voice. When they grew hungry, she filled a bottle with goat milk and fed them. For months, she sought their parents. For months, she tried to find a new home for them. But in the end, she chose to keep them with her.

“They were identical twins, she swiftly discovered as they grew. It was nigh impossible to tell them apart, and many days she confused them, until she came to learn their personalities. One was intelligent, drawn to books and quiet spaces, and the other was wild, adventurous, a boy who wanted to roam the mountains and drive stakes into rabbits. The quiet one she could raise, but her wild boy . . . the woman did not know how to tame such a heart, if such a heart could be tamed without breaking.

“For all their differences, they both held a vein of craftiness. This she learned when they began to play each other’s roles. Her quiet boy would deceive her, acting as his wild brother to take his punishments. And the wild boy would act as his quiet twin, to avoid her wrath when he strayed too far.