Must know. Legs quaking, she lumbered to her feet and approached the bed. Slowly she stretched out her arm to flatten a palm against her mother’s chest. The spot Viori loved to rest her head when they told bedtime stories to Drendall. No heartbeat. Ice-cold skin.

The moisture in her mouth dried. Vision blurring, she stumbled over to check her father for signs of life. Finding none.

Realization heralded shock. Yes, they were dead. And it was her fault. She’d killed her parents with a song. Had viciously murdered the pair.

“I’m so sorry. So sorry. So—” Another sob cut her off. Tears rained freely, scalding her cheeks. Over and over Kaysar’s warning replayed in her head. Like Fifibelle, Viori had refused to listen. Now she must suffer the consequences.

And so must her brother.

He would hate her now. If he didn’t, he should. Her voice wasn’t a gift, but a curse.

Overcome by grief, she snatched Drendall from the nightstand and sank to the floor. With her friend clutched tight to her chest, she curled into a ball and rocked back and forth. Why had she done this? Why, why, why?

What if she did it again? She buried her face in Drendall’s soft hair. Was Kaysar to be her next victim? What if Viori harmed him when she tried to explain? What if Fifibelle awoke? What if she created something worse?

Panic collided with desperation, both exploding inside her. Can’t harm Kaysar. Not him. Anyone but him.

But what if she did it? Soon, he would return to the cottage…

She squeezed Drendall tighter. Must be quiet. Mustn’t say anything else.

Ever.

8 months later

“WHY DON’T I sing to you, hmm?” Kaysar led Viori through the Forest of Many Names. He kept a firm hold on her hand, as if he feared she might dash away.

Viori clung to Drendall, refusing to speak. Won’t harm my brother. Not now, not ever.

Morning sunlight filtered through a canopy of gemstone-colored leaves. A narrow brook rushed over moss-covered rocks. Wind blustered, whirling specks of dirt into tiny funnels.

“I’ll sing anything you wish,” he added with a twinge of regret. “Something about a princess and her prince, perhaps? Or what if I sing to Drendall instead? Would she like a song all her own, do you think?”

Insides compressing, she looked anywhere but in his direction. His ragged condition would only wither the pieces of her broken heart. Thanks to Viori, he had no family or home. No job. No way to earn money. He was forced to shuffle her from village to village, stealing food and clothing whenever possible, bunking in any halfway stable shelter.

Yet, not once had he blamed her. Though he should. She deserved blame.