Lions work. Lions prowl. Lions thirst, especially when they’re sad, and when they thirst they drink, and when they drink they roar louder.

I never felt his teeth. I was, we were, lucky that way. The lion was never hungry when we were near. But you don’t have to feel a lion’s teeth to fear them. His muzzle was often bloody when he came home. Sometimes the blood was not his; often it was. Tend a lion’s wounds as it breathes. Tend wounds around its mouth, in reach of its paws, and smell the kill blood on its breath.

(The sky’s war painted Ellen many shades of fire.)

Each of my sisters dealt with the lion in her own way. Hannah was sweet and charming and often gone. She laughed and danced, and did not talk at home. Claire went with the lion in the mornings, and worked with him, sometimes in his place. She grew strong and hard and brave.

I’m none of those things.

One night the lion did not come home. He often stayed out late hunting. But the hours passed. I watched the sand in the glass and knew the later he came back the louder he would roar, the more he would be hurt, the more he would need.

He did not come home that night, or the next morning. That night I waited, too.

I was afraid. So was Hannah. Claire wasn’t, but when we went to find him, she came.

We lost ourselves in the Pleasure Quarter. Not even Claire knew the way. I prayed. The Lady sent Her child to me. He led us home.

The lion wept when we returned. I never saw that happen before, though I heard it some nights through the wall. He embraced us. He was bloody, and he was hurt, but more than that he was afraid.

My sisters think that was the first time I prayed to the Lady. But I called to Her then because I knew Her from before.

There was no room for my voice in a house of roaring. I could not talk with my sisters, because when there’s a lion in the house all you can talk about is the lion, and who wants to talk about a lion all the time?

I spoke to the night instead.

The night does not fear lions. It knows them. It makes their voices small. The night gives birth to day, and when the sun rises the night waits behind the star. It is big, and it listens. The night’s smile turns shadow to velvet and blood to silver.

I prayed to the Lady before She returned. When the dreams came, I honored them. I spoke to Her, because the night hears whispers louder than a roar.

Some people here found Her in terror, in torture. I found Her in the undoing of a knot into which a lion’s roar tied me.