As far as she can see, there is dry, arid sand, and a bright blue sky, uninterrupted by clouds. Not a single tree sways in sight, not even a miserly bush. Croi can see no green, just shades of red and brown stretching on for leagues. The little flame in her veins, the one she has almost forgotten, exults at the sight; the Croi inside trembles as well. She takes pleasure in the desert while Croi recoils from it.

The view outside seems real, but a flash of magick thread gives it away. Croi can see the Tine magick winding round and round the room before spilling out the open windows and weaving the living picture she sees outside. The fire magick is familiar, the song muted, but brilliantly shaded. The desert is an illusion created by the Tine King; it is his magick that pulses softly around the edges of the enchanted horizon.

The thought of the Tine King brings a confused frown to Croi’s face.

“Is he…?” she thinks to her other self.

Don’t say it.

Both Croi and her other self felt an affinity, a kinship, for the Tine King. How is that possible? How can the Tine King belong to her when he’s obviously Ceara’s father?

Croi’s chest hurts again, and she rubs it. She picks up her bag and pulls out Uaine’s SoulSeed. She unwraps it carefully. Its heat has substantially faded, and its light has grown dimmer.

“What are you doing?”

The voice in the doorway of the room startles Croi. She turns her head and sees Monca standing at the door. The brownie has an impressive scowl on her face and is looking Croi over as though she is a stain that has to be removed.

“Who are you?” the brownie asks. She has a gruff manner of speaking. Her voice is low and rough, as though she has spent her life whispering and has forgotten how to speak normally.

Croi sighs at the same old question. A question that she still has no answer to. She doesn’t respond, and the brownie comes closer, shutting the door on her way in. Is she supposed to be frightened by the brownie’s actions?

“You are not Fiona.” Indeed. Croi wonders when the brownie noticed. “Why are you here?”

“My business is my own,” Croi replies.

Monca glares at Croi, her contempt obvious in the curve of her lips. “If you hurt my Ceara,” she hisses, drawing even closer, “I will…”

Have we harmed this brownie mother in any way?

“You will?” Croi stares at this brownie, who gives her all her thorns. Did she think that just because she used to be a brownie and Monca is a brownie, some kind of bond would exist between them? A shared appreciation of being small and helpless? Croi is more likely to find that with Tinder than with Monca.

“You will see what I will do,” Monca says, doubling the gruffness. “Now follow me. It is dinnertime. The king wants to see you.” The one inside jumps at this tidbit while Croi frantically thinks of excuses. Seeing the king before she comes to terms with her relationship to him would be folly.