“I caught her reflection in a mirror,” I answered, and remembered seeing her two steps behind, crouching toward me with her bloodied teeth and fierce, dark eyes. Would she have harmed me? I wanted to believe that she wouldn’t.

I began to consider a spell I might craft to protect myself, sharpen my senses when I was in her presence.

“A foolish blunder on her part, then,” said Imonie.

“Actually, I think she planned it,” I countered, tracing the bow of my lips. “She wanted me to see who she truly is.”

“Why?”

I realized I still had charcoal on my fingertips, that I must have smudged a mustache on my face. My hand drifted away to hold the strap of my satchel.

“I think she wants me to draw her true self.”

“Of course she does!” Imonie grumbled, returning to her task. “Trolls are insufferably vain.”

“Is something burning?” I asked, sniffing the air.

Imonie went rigid, and then rushed to the oven. A thin plume of smoke rose when she cracked the oven door. “You’ve made me burn the galettes!”

“They look fine,” I reassured her as she took a mitt and retrieved them from the oven.

“Clementine?” my father called from upstairs.

Both Imonie and I froze. When she looked at me, I saw the worry in her expression.

“Is he still sick?” I whispered.

“His fever has yet to break,” Imonie said. “Best you go up and see what he needs. Here, take him this cup of tea. Make sure he drinks it.”

She took the kettle from the stove and poured a cup of a pungent-smelling brew that made my nose crinkle. But I took it as she ordered, nearly burning my hand on the mug. I didn’t realize it, not until I was on my way to the stairs. I set my art satchel down and glanced at the table and saw only one place was set with the fine china. My place. Imonie had not set a dinner plate at my father’s chair, which meant she believed he was too ill to face the new moon.

I had never encountered a new moon night on my own. He and I were always together in the streets, fighting as one.

Dismayed, I climbed the stairs and stepped into his bedroom.

My father was sitting up in his bed, leaning against the headboard, waiting for me. He seemed to get sick every year, right around this time. When summer surrendered to autumn, my father inevitably fell prey to a fever and a cough, blaming it on a final bloom of some vengeful valley weed. And while he always recovered within a few days, I still didn’t know what to do with him when he was like this.

“Papa?” I tried to hand him the tea mug, but he motioned for me to set it on the bedside table. “Did you need something?”