Nighttime on the green. With a cry of relief, Twelve saw the grave was filled in, the awful crows gone. A small fire burned on the grass in front of her and Starling was silhouetted there, cross-legged, in front of it. Her spine was very straight and, apart from the rise and fall of her chest, she didn’t move. Silence cloaked the place like a shroud.

Twelve took a slow, deep breath, trying to quell her nausea as memories broke over her in a drowning wave.

The girl by the fire shook as she picked up her father’s axes with trembling fingers. A sob tore from her throat, then a scream—a raw, visceral sound, more animal than human.

In the space between heartbeats, the world around her was suddenly ablaze. Every house, every tree, the fields, even the grass roared with inexplicable flames.

In the center of the inferno, untouched, sat Starling, still screaming.

Chapter

Fourteen

“Twelve . . . TWELVE!”

“Wake UP!”

Twelve sucked in a breath like a person half drowned, and snapped open her eyes. Slowly, the screaming receded and the world swam into focus.

She was sitting bolt upright, her blankets twisted around her ankles like ropes. Five, Six, and Dog were crouched in front of her, their faces variously pale and shocked. Widge was clawing one side of her face and the other side stung like she’d been slapped. Her breath was shuddering and tears spilled over her lashes. Emotions ricocheted through her seemingly at random, churning her guts and muddying her thoughts. But one quickly engulfed the others: humiliation.

“What are you all staring at?” she gasped. She’d been hoping for defiance, but what came out was a rasping squeak.

Dog nudged her gently with his nose. In unison, Five’s and Six’s expressions slid from fear into pity. The humiliation shifted and gathered into a roaring flood of fury. Five only just managed to dodge her fist.

“What the . . . ?” he yelped, picking himself up and jumping farther back. “What in Ember is actually wrong with you?”

There was a familiar sensation coursing through Twelve’s veins, one she’d thought the dream milk would prevent her ever feeling again: trapped panic, a butterfly in a killing jar hopelessly trying to escape. Her limbs felt shaky, her mouth was dry, and her heart pounded. Worse than that, worse even than the dreams, was the thought of someone knowing about them and feeling sorry for her. Anything but that.

“It’s all right, Twelve,” Six said gently, his pale brow furrowed with concern. Summoning up her strength, she swung at him too. He was ready for her and dodged nimbly out of reach, but his infuriating expression remained. “I understand,” he said, “I really do. I used to use dream milk too. The first night off it is the most difficult. Five thinks so as well.”

“Hey!” Five yelped. “Shut up! Obviously, that’s private!”

Six winced.