He whispers my name. Then adds, “You are alive.”

“You’re not.” I wrap my arms around him and hold him as tightly as I had wished to when I first learned he was gone. “I wish you were.”

“But I am,” he says, and the smile in his voice tugs at my lips. I pull away from him, shocked.

“You are?” I trace my fingers over his face. His eyelids fall to aid my ministrations.

“Yes.” His voice is a whisper. A confession. “My mother orchestrated the show of my death.”

“To save you from Mabh.” I remember the fae woman in the armor with the damaged magick and the cruelty in her eyes. “I hate her.”

In response Irial hugs me tight. I hold him gently as you do those precious to you.

“Where are you now?” he asks, his face buried in my neck.

“I don’t know.”

“Find me. I’m in the School in the mountains,” he says, his voice growing faint. I try to keep hold of him, but the dream fractures and I wake.

Has it always been so quiet inside me?

I open my eyes, and the shadows around me retreat as if I’ve frightened them. When I sit up, the world spins. I let it; one must always indulge the world. It stops after a minute.

A gentle daylight, filtered through the tree branches above me, illuminates the room I am in. The dwelling I once called home shelters me again. Little has changed in the time I have been gone. A light coating of dust that calls into question the Hag’s housekeeping abilities and a new growth of ivy are all that is different. A familiar forest breathes outside the door.

The chitter of gringits is loud outside, and above that is the hum of two very familiar voices. I ignore them and the questions that surround my presence in the Wilde Forest for the moment. My attention is fixed on the handheld mirror lying on a tree stump in a corner of the room. My face is an imperative question I have to answer. However, to reach the mirror, I must challenge walking.

Well, I survived certain death, so I’m sure walking is not going to be too difficult. I stand up and find empathy with newborn colts before I master the art of putting one foot in front of the other. I walk over to the mirror and wipe its surface with my sleeve.

The first thing I see is the very dirty blue dress I’m wearing. The front of it has been patched together for the sake of decency, but the bloodstains tell tales of my brush with death. I look at the blood and once again feel the metal claws sink into my skin, break the bones of my rib cage, and pluck the HeartStone out.

Two breaths and one suppressed scream later, I am calm again.

My hair is a wild mess; long, right down to my knees, it is made up of brown, gold, and red strands. It, too, is dirty. My skin is a shade between brown and a light orange. I save my face for last. My eyelashes are long, thick, and green, surrounding my peculiar eyes; my mouth is wide and my lips are full. My eyebrows arch while my cheekbones are high.