“It’s Francis,” Sophie said shortly and broke into a jog. “We need to hurry.” Claire immediately followed, holding the tines tight in her hands. Thorn stayed back, looking unsure if he was included in the “we,” but Sophie paused and, reaching out, laced her fingers in his and pulled him to the great doors.

The three jogged into the night, following the gleam of moonlight reflecting off copper wings. Other than the thinnest of crescent moons, the night sky was still an inky black. The star shower had not yet begun.

They reached the cottage at the very edge of the forest just as a Tiller healer exited. The healer’s face was grim, and Claire and Sophie didn’t bother to ask what was wrong as they hurried inside.

Flames flickered in the fireplace, and someone had lit candles and set them on the long worktable that took up most of Francis’s home. The straw pallets that had been Sena’s and Nett’s had been piled onto the grown-up-sized trundle bed, making it extra cushiony. Two heads, one black and one auburn, bent over it, but at the sound of Gryphin’s wings, they looked toward the door.

Recent tears shimmered on Nett’s cheek, while Sena’s eyes were rimmed in red.

“Who is it?” a tired voice asked from somewhere beneath the pile of quilts and pillows.

“It’s Sophie, Claire, and Thorn, Grandfather,” Nett said. His eyes widened slightly. “And—is that half of the crown?” Both he and Sena looked ready to explode into questions, but at that moment, Francis began to cough, an ugly rasping that sounded like sandpaper across stone. Answers would have to wait.

“Ah.” Francis sighed softly once the fit had subsided. “Come in, come in.” The old Tiller was small against his pillows. His chest barely went up and down, and his skin seemed as fragile as tissue paper. But his eyes when he looked at them were still bright under his single bushy eyebrow.

“Hello, Mr. Francis,” Claire whispered as they drew near.

“Just Francis,” he corrected with a small smile. “No need to whisper, though.”

Claire ducked her head, feeling shy and uncomfortable. To hide her awkwardness, she set the Oak Leaf Tine and Stone Tine among the broken bits of pottery and piles of soil on the worktable. Nett and Sena, meanwhile, scooted to make room for Sophie and Claire to join them on the bench that had been pulled up to the bedside. Sophie slid in, but Claire hung back, not really sure what to do. Sophie’s face was composed, though. Without a word, she slipped her hand into Francis’s, and the pinched look that had been on the old Tiller’s face seemed to loosen just a bit.