“You’re not supposed to be able to remember!” Irial sounds upset. Croi glances at him and finds the fae’s face conspicuously missing the little smile that seemed to have a home in his eyes. “Your memories are supposed to fade as soon as you wake up. That’s the specialty of the scrying spell I use.”

“Clearly your spell is faulty because I remember every single word you said,” Croi says, enjoying the flustered look on his face. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I mean, I only have trees around me, and I don’t think they care about the politics of an Otherworld kingdom.”

“Where are you?” Irial doesn’t look convinced by her reassurance.

“In the human world. Before you ask, I’ve never been to the Otherworld, but I reckon that’s where I’m headed. I have a summoning spell on me. Hmm. How about this? Since you told me your secrets, I will tell you mine. Deal?”

“Thank you?” Croi doesn’t know why his thank-you is a question, but before she can ask, Irial speaks. “Why are you a centaur right now? Is that your true shape?” His question returns Croi immediately to the bleak circumstances she had just managed to forget.

She blanches at his question. “I hope not. It turns out you jinxed me.”

“Jinxed you?” Irial wrinkles his face at the accusation. “How?”

“You guessed it right. I am Glamoured, except I don’t know what my true shape is. It’s not a brownie, and I’m hoping it isn’t a centaur.”

“Are you sure you’re not a centaur?” Irial asks.

“No? How can I be sure of something like that? Should I try eating grass? Do centaurs eat grass?” Croi looks at the grass on the ground but doesn’t find it appetizing in the least.

“No. They’re carnivores,” Irial replies.

“Do you know any?”

“Yes, there was an envoy from the herd living in the Glas Plains two summers ago. They brought along some of their artisans to send to the School—” Croi listens to Irial speak and feels sadder. She doesn’t know the places he speaks of.

“It must be nice to know who you are and where you belong,” she says softly, interrupting him.

“Not really.” Irial knots his fingers together, a sneer on his face. “You can’t belong to a place when you’re always treated like an outsider.”

“If we’re going to compete about who between us is more pitiful, I will remind you that you at least know what shape is natural to you. I don’t.” Croi sniffs, overwhelmed by sudden self-pity.

Irial’s face softens, and he pats her on the back. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“What do you think I’m doing right now?” She rolls her eyes at him. “Is your mother still being secretive? Did you talk to her?”

It is Irial’s turn to sigh. He runs a hand through his hair. Croi wonders if his hair is as soft as it looks. Then she decides she needs to concentrate on more important things, like what’s happening to her body.