“Well, many years ago, they tried to grow greenmeal there.” Her ma paused to scoop another handful of lavender into the soap. “It’s a delicate plant, difficult to cultivate. Always brings a good price as a result though. But Redfern was unlucky that year—there was a great spring storm that flattened the young crop. Undeterred, they replanted the next year. Again, a spring storm came and ruined their efforts.”

Starling listened, a trickle of sweat working its way down her temple. So did Twelve.

“In the third year,” her ma continued, “there was a village moot to discuss what was to be done, and they decided to plant maize instead. Spring came and went with fine weather and the maize crop was a success. The next year they planted it again, and the year after that. For five years running, there were no spring storms, but they never tried to grow greenmeal again.”

Her ma nodded, satisfied with her telling. “Can you see what I’m saying, Starling?”

Starling stared at her blankly. “Uh—” She paused, then brightened. “That if Poppy would stop destroying my things, I could have nice things . . . ?”

“No!” her ma exclaimed, startled.

“Well, why don’t you just say it straight,” Starling muttered. “I never understand your stories.”

Her ma’s bark of laughter was sudden and loud. “So like your da,” she grinned. “Fine, I’ll tell it plain. You are like the storm in that story, Starling.”

“What?” Starling sputtered. “I’m not the one always breaking things!” She crossed her arms. “This is what I mean. You and Da do always take Poppy’s side!”

“Enough!” her ma cried, soap splashing out of the pot to hiss in the flames. She took a deep breath. “Your sister is clumsy, we all know that. But the way you react . . .” Her ma cast her eyes skyward as though the clouds might explain for her. When she next spoke, she said the words slowly, choosing them carefully. “Your reaction, your anger, is as destructive as Poppy’s carelessness. Maybe more so. Have you thought about that?”

“No.” Starling’s shoulders were slumped, her face sullen. “That’s not true anyway.”

“She breaks something you care about,” her ma said, “and so you shout at her, and keep going until she cries. Don’t you see that you’re breaking something too?”

Starling shrugged.

“Do you think your anger will magically fix your broken toy? Turn back time?”

“Of course not,” Starling scowled, stirring the dusty earth by the fire with her toe.

“Then . . . why do it?” her ma asked.

“It’s her fault!” Starling burst out. “I wouldn’t have to be thundery with her if she didn’t make me so angry all the time.”

To her surprise, her ma laughed. “You sound like you think there’s no choice in the matter.”

Starling shrugged again and her ma’s face grew serious.