After putting on some dry clothes, Ark moved the kettle back to the hot plate on top of the iron woodstove and waited until it whistled. Tea was a rare pleasure, even when bought secondhand. Arborium wasn’t completely cut off from the outside world. Its borders were as porous as a sieve when it came to supply and demand. The mud-pirates who lived in the twilight world a mile below at the bottom of the trees were only too happy to act as smugglers. They filtered through spices and coffee from Maw and delivered them to the dumb butlers that provided the only means of access to this country high aboveground. The two spoonfuls of the dried leaves now covered with steaming water had traveled far, just like the woman Ark had overheard. The difference was, a pot of tea didn’t present an absolute threat to their way of life.

The roughly carved wooden cup warmed his hands and as Ark sank to the floor, he realized how tired he was. It was time for the truth. He told his story for the second time that day.

When Ark had finished, his father stayed silent for a while, studying the leaves at the bottom of his empty cup as if they might reveal the future.

“What now, son?”

“What do you mean, ‘now’?” Ark was close to tears again as the despair closed in. “I can’t go back to work. I can’t earn any money. I can’t feed you and Shiv and Mom. I might as well have been banished to the Ravenwood for all the good I can do this family.”

“Hush. There’s always something you can do.” His father might be crippled, confined to his cot-basket, but there was a strong edge of certainty in his voice.

“What? The moment I walk out of here, there’ll be a price on my head. I’ve failed you. I’m just a —”

“You’re just a child. I know.” His father shook his head, then gently pushed Ark’s fringe of black hair aside to study the boy’s face. “And yet, there was always something different about you. There was me climbing a branch to work out why twigs kept clogging a drain, while the wind tried to pluck me off the tree like a feather!”

Ark had heard the story a hundred times. Usually, it was reassuring. Now it filled him with unanswered questions.

“And there you both were, swaddled in a feather-lined nest and smiling up at me with your strange green eyes.”

That whirlwind of an afternoon fourteen years ago, Mr. Malikum the plumber had gone out with a wrench and come back with two babies. His wife was shocked, then delighted. Who were they to refuse a gift of the trees?