“And what will it change? It won’t make you any more able to use your Ability when you’re not in true mortal peril.”

“Jest do it. Please. Please do it.” With a groan, she hopped off the crate, almost stumbling but managing to cross the distance between them before falling to her knees. She grabbed his hands. They were still warm, like before.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m beggin’ ye to do this fer me. If ye do it, I won’ ask fer anuther thing, I swear it.”

He shook his head. “I thought you were different.” He wrenched his hands free, heading back toward the bunkhouse.

“Different than whut?” Perfidy called after him. “I’m jest like any other idiot in this godsdamn world.”

He kept walking, though he did have one parting remark to offer. “No, you’re not, Perfidy Tress. And the sooner you realize that the better it will be for everyone. Especially for yourself.”

She watched him go, trying to reignite some level of fire inside her, enough to burn, or at least smolder. Instead she felt only cold, like her blood had turned to ice. “Godsdammit,” she muttered. She shivered, headed for the closest tree of reasonable size, and began to climb. Jumping off of boxes wasn’t going to accomplish anything; this was the only way.

Her body ached from a day of falling. Climbing hurt too, but it also felt strangely good, like she was accomplishing something for the first time since she’d arrived in New Dawn. Higher and higher she went, occasionally glancing back down at the clearing, half-expecting to find Jereb standing out there, gesticulating wildly for her to come down. If he did, she wondered whether she would listen.

But he didn’t, so she just kept on climbing, until the buildings of New Dawn were tiny, distant things, like a set of toy models a child had set up during playtime. The higher she went, the more the wind picked up, until it howled in her ears, each blast of its breath an attempt to rip her free. She stopped her ascent, clinging to the tree’s trunk, which had grown quite thin at this height.

Looked back one final time to see if anyone knew what she was doing. Whether anyone cared.

She was alone.

“Oh gods, Ma. Why? Why did ye hafta protect me?” Tears trembled on her cheeks. “I don’ want ye to be—ye cain’t be dead. Ye cain’t.”

Clinging to that tree, cheeks red and tearstained, she felt weak. And pathetic. And the opposite of everything her ma had raised her to be. But what if she did this? What if she proved beyond a reasonable doubt that she wasn’t weak, wasn’t pathetic? Once was a fluke. Twice was dumb luck. But three times? That was truth.