The sound increases in volume and reverberates in her head, temporarily drowning out all other noise. Then she hears the soft sounds of small footsteps and swings her gaze around to where a centipede is crawling under a log. Croi’s hearing is normally sharp, but even she doesn’t mark her hours by the footsteps of critters.

Croi’s heart races at the thought of having to live her life in a constant din. All the sounds of the world try to crowd inside her head at the same time. She panics a little, not knowing what to do and how to make the noise stop. Clamping her hands over her ears doesn’t help. She closes her eyes as though not seeing the world means not being able to hear it. That doesn’t work either. She tries to remember what silence sounds like.

At that moment, she remembers the evenings she spent with the Hag in the dwelling. The Hag’s silences—unwelcome then—are memories she cleaves to now. They were soothing silences, soft, not full of unsaid words but empty. Croi breathes in once, then again, removes her hands from her ears slowly, exhaling with relief. The noise has receded somewhat. The volume is muted, but the knowledge that one thought is all it will take to increase it resides in her bones.

She gathers her meager belongings and dusts herself off. Croi thanks the tree for providing her with shelter before she starts searching for food. She breaks fast on tart berries from a thorny bush. They’re not very filling, but there is nothing else. Croi has run out of water, but as always, she knows which direction a river lies, so she sets off toward it. The ground inclines and soon she’s breathing heavily. About thirty minutes later, her efforts pay off as the trees thin to reveal a river that falls a short distance to a mostly still pool before trickling away through some gaps in the rocks to caverns underneath. In a moment of curiosity, Croi finds the stillest part of the river.

She takes a breath, finds some courage, and closes her eyes. Then, before she can change her mind, before the courage flees, she leans over the water, opens her eyes, and looks down at her reflection.

ELEVEN

ONE WEEK AGO, CROI HAD brown hair, brown skin, and brown eyes filled with the sun. On her face was a snub nose and plump cheeks. Two round ears grew close to her head. Her lips were wide and often stretched in a smile. Her face hadn’t been remarkable, but because it was hers, she had liked it.

The girl in the river has a face sculpted by nightmares. She sports a misshapen bump for a nose and mottled brown-orange skin. Her forehead is too wide and her mouth is too small. The bottom of her face boasts a suggestion of a chin.

Her eyes, which were originally a light brown, have undergone drastic changes. A shimmery gold iris surrounds the black pupil, which itself is ringed twice: the inner ring is the orange of ember, and the outer ring is thicker and a light green, like new shoots on a plant. Croi’s eyes are strange, beautiful, and entirely out of place on her face.