“Better start by speaking with the Orullians,” she said. “They might be able to give us a better idea of what we’re walking into. Even if we can’t do anything about Phryne right away, we need to make sure the Queen listens to what we have to say about the Drouj. She won’t ignore the threat of an invasion, no matter the extent of her complicity in the killing of the King. She’s in as much danger as everyone else.”

Pan nodded, rising. “Let’s pack and leave.”

They set about the task of preparing for their departure, stuffing their backpacks with clothes, tying on rolled-up blankets, and adding medicines and weapons from Panterra’s locker. Preferring not to return to her own house, Prue selected clothes from the extras she always kept at Pan’s cottage. Her parents might have returned from their travels by now, but as yet they knew nothing about what had happened to her. If they saw her eyes, their reaction would be much worse than Pan’s. They would pull her from the Tracker ranks in a millisecond, no matter how hard she tried to explain things. Better that they remain ignorant of everything for a little while longer.

“I don’t like doing this,” Pan said at one point. “Deceiving your parents feels wrong.” He paused. “Of course, telling them the truth doesn’t feel like the right thing, either.”

She stopped what she was doing and looked him in the eye. “I’ve been a Tracker long enough that I have the right to make that decision. So let’s not talk about it.”

They continued with their preparations in silence. Prue was glad for the excuse to keep busy, not wanting to think too hard about what lay ahead, still uncertain in her own mind that they were doing the right thing. Going to the Elves might create fresh complications since it meant getting involved with Phryne again. But abandoning her wasn’t something that she was prepared to do, either. Even knowing that things were likely to be much more difficult than they expected, she was in agreement with Pan that they had to do something.

She worked quietly in her world of grays and shadows, trying not to think about how dreary it all was. She imagined the colors she wasn’t seeing, tried to remember the intensity of hues when she began selecting from her clothes and pleased with herself when she could do so and irritated when she couldn’t. She pictured the colors of the furniture and wood moldings, of walls, floors, and ceiling, of the rendition of the little painting of a woman at a well that Pan’s mother had loved so much and that he kept on the wall even after she was gone. She tried to guess the color of his clothes, then of curtains and his old comforter.

Stop it! she admonished herself finally. Let it alone!