Twelve stared at the stars outside as Six’s breathing deepened. Widge snuggled into her neck, chirruping softly, and she reached up to stroke him. She hoped they were wrong about Five. She hoped they would find Seven unharmed, and that the Frozen Forest’s reputation had been vastly exaggerated.

When had she started hoping for so much?

Twelve hadn’t realized she’d fallen asleep until a voice filtered through the gloom.

“Starling!” A whisper. And then: “Shh, don’t wake your sister.”

“Da?” A voice in the shifting dark.

Twelve looked around, confusion sharpening into a fear that made her muscles tense and her heart pound.

“It’s all right, just me! I want to show you something though. It won’t take long.”

“All right, Da, I’m coming.” A stifled yawn.

Twelve stood blinking in the darkness, willing her eyes to adjust, although she knew this room like the back of her hand. Two narrow beds swam into view, both with a small bedside table holding an unlit candle. Between the beds lay a lovingly plaited rug, its familiar bright colors muted in the gloom. From one bed Starling rose and in the other Poppy slept on, her cloud of dark hair fanned across the pillow.

Twelve couldn’t resist moving closer, savoring each moment of the deep rhythmic breathing.

Poppy.

Her bright, curious, infuriating little sister, Poppy.

Chapter

Twenty-Two

The smell of her own home almost made Twelve cry out with longing: sweet dried grass, beeswax, the lavender-scented soap her ma made to trade. She wanted to stay here forever, listening to her little sister sleep, but the fish-hook tug in her gut forced her to follow Starling down the stairs. She trailed after her, running her fingers along the smooth plaited-grass walls. Her very earliest memory was of her parents building this house.

In the living room, dying embers in the fireplace revealed another bright rug, this one unmistakably from the desert clan and her ma’s pride and joy. Very occasionally, the caravans ventured away from the Scour to trade, bringing the bright dyes and desert glass that her ma and Poppy adored. Around the rug, several beautifully carved chairs were angled toward the grate. The smell of beeswax polish was strong, needling at Twelve, trying to draw out the thousand little memories tied to it, but she resisted. Instead, she shadowed Starling as the girl opened the lacquered front door and slipped outside.

“Da? Where are you?”

“Over here,” he whispered from the side of the house.

Twelve paused to drink in the familiar outline of Poa. Candles burned in windows and animals shifted in their stalls. The village might be slumbering, but it was undoubtedly alive. Her heart swooped and soared, the joy and despair dizzying.

Her da was sitting on the big log, head bowed over his two axes as he rubbed a nutty oil into the gleaming hafts.