“It tears you apart. Limb by limb.” The dryad’s voice drops a decibel. “Do you think you can endure the pain? Is that the end you’re looking for?”

Croi bows her head, hating her traitorous eyes for filling with tears. A part of her is unsurprised by the forecast of pain. It has become her constant companion, more reliable than anyone she could have called her own.

“You just need to tell me your name,” the dryad coaxes. “I will set you free.”

Croi looks at the tree creature, alien and unknown. She knows better than to ask for kindness.

The dryad doesn’t say another word, simply stands in front of Croi, so still she might as well have returned to her tree. Croi thinks of staying here forever, frozen in time, lost in time. She shudders; she wouldn’t last a day.

“Croi. My name is Croi.” She hands over the only thing she truly owns. If it means getting out of this clearing, she will make the sacrifice.

“Croi,” the dryad repeats. On her tongue, the name is not just a sound but a touch, a power, a summons. The breeze that had been playing with the leaves dies down, and the insects stop their chittering. Even the trees seem to hold their collective breath. She says it again. “Croi.”

Croi’s bones twinge. That is the only warning.

She sags against the tree, her eyes squeezing shut as they begin to prickle. The prickles intensify until her eyes feel like they’re being pierced by needles after being scrubbed by sand. Her insides shift, hesitate, and then shift again. Her throat burns. Her head feels like it will burst, and her fingers are hot like they’re on fire. Her soles twist and her feet are reformed. The world slips away, and Croi falls into the familiar dark place where pain reigns supreme.

Soft words spoken in a language Croi doesn’t understand but has heard before bring her back. Something has changed. The knowledge is a cold realization. She can feel the difference within, a butterfly’s wings tickling her on the wrong side of her skin. She is no longer alone in her body.

SEVEN

THE DRYAD DID SOMETHING TO her. She called Croi by her name—no, she didn’t just speak out the name. She called Croi and all of Croi answered. Not just the not-brownie she is, but also the other Croi, the one who beats like a heart somewhere inside this Glamoured body. She can feel this other her now. She is a warmth in Croi’s chest and a whisper in her mind, as alive and aware as she is. Has this other Croi been trapped inside her, just like the stone maid is trapped inside her stone body? Croi flushes cold at the thought.

“Take a breath,” the hoarse voice of the dryad commands.

Croi takes two.

“Who are you, little maybe?” the dryad whispers in her ear, wheedling. “Won’t you tell me?” She is smiling, perhaps in anticipation of Croi’s answer.