Twelve shook herself; she shouldn’t care about her enemies like that. If she did, then where would it end? Would she forgive the people who’d killed her family, stolen her life away? Would she let them live happily ever after when they’d denied her that? Of course not: she had to put her family first, honor their memory.

Miserably, she pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them. Even with her arms wrapped tightly around herself, she felt chilled without Widge’s soft warmth pressed against her. Where was he? Was he all right? Her fear for him made breathing difficult. A cold tear rolled down her cheek as she rested her forehead on her knees, trying to fend off thoughts as dark as the dungeons.

She’d almost had friends and she had attacked them, abandoned them. She’d lost Widge. Now she was truly alone. Perhaps it was what she deserved.

“That’s just not true, Starling.” Her ma sounded tired, a little impatient.

“It is!” Starling’s voice, angry. “She did it on purpose! She broke off both Staggy’s antlers. That doesn’t happen by mistake!”

Twelve blinked, colors shifting in and out of focus, the present and the past mingling, until the scene settled before her.

And her mother, sitting on a low stool, a lifetime ago.

Chapter

Thirty-Seven

Behind their home, her mother sat, stirring the contents of their very largest pot, suspended over flames. A basket of lavender, flowers carefully picked from the stems, sat next to her. The day was warm and the fire hot; her mother’s dark, wild hair stuck to her face in damp tendrils. She stirred with one hand and fanned herself with the other, gazing at her older daughter all the while. Starling stood in front of her, cheeks flushed, rigid with righteous anger.

“Oh, Starling,” her ma sighed. “Fine. Fetch Poppy.”

Starling looked fit to burst. “Why? Don’t you believe me?”

“I believe you,” her ma said, threads of a warning tension in her voice. “But I’ll hear her side too. I can’t leave the soap”—she nodded at the steaming pot—“so go and get her, please.”

Twelve crept closer, breathing in the familiar scents of Poa: woodsmoke, grass, warm animals. She ran her fingers over the lacquered walls of their home, eyes never leaving her ma’s back. She wanted to see her face but, as she moved closer, Starling stomped away, brows thunderous, bawling her little sister’s name. Twelve had no choice but to follow.

“Poppy?” Starling bellowed, striding past the house toward the green. “POPPY! WHERE ARE YOU?”

“Stop tha roaring,” cried Old Skylark, leaning out of the window next door. “There are babbies and oldies tryna rest!”

Somewhat chastened, Starling ducked her head and apologized. “Have you seen her though?” she asked, raising her eyes to the old man’s face hopefully.