Several sticks lie beside the firepit, and at her inner self’s behest, Croi drops a couple of them into the flames, enjoying the crackling sound they make as they burn. If only there were a plump rabbit she could catch. She’d roast it over the fire. Croi’s mouth waters at the thought, and she pats her stomach sadly. Food feels like an impossibility in this forest. Perhaps her hunger will be sated in Talamh Caisleán.

She warms her hands over the fire, but it isn’t enough; she brings her face closer to the flames and enjoys the heat on her cheeks. She looks into the depths of the flames and suddenly, instead of the crackling, hears a raspy, throaty song.

“Do you hear that?” she asks her inner self.

Yes.

The song is so soft that it is almost indiscernible. Unable to resist the beauty of what she can hear, she leans even closer to the flame, closer than is wise. The fire’s song makes her breathless, so she takes a deep breath, and when she does, she inhales the fire into herself.

FIFTEEN

THERE IS NO INFERNO, NO conflagration of Croi, no agony. Though the fire licks her insides warm, she doesn’t burn. She’s not singed, scorched, or seared. She’s feverish, but that is due more to fear than the heat. Throughout the entire experience, Croi keeps hearing snatches of the fire’s song, loud one minute and barely audible the next.

She takes another breath and feels the flames pour into the spaces within her that were created by the breaking Glamour. The heat reaches her core first and electrifies her other self. She takes a deep breath and is not surprised when it hurts. Then something unexpected happens: the fire creates a bridge connecting her to her inner self, and for a moment, just a tiny sliver of a second, she is a patched-up whole instead of two broken halves. But the sensation is too intense, and she can’t help but exhale, breathing the flames back into the crude firepit. All that remains is the taste of smoke in her mouth, and the memory of once being complete.

She shifts away from the fire but is reluctant to leave it entirely. Breathing cautiously, she turns her face away so the flames don’t jump into her once again. The fire writhes, its flames flickering toward her, and she, unable to resist, reaches out a finger and watches in wonder as a tendril of flame curls around it. Again there is heat, but it is banked as though the fire itself is trying not to burn her. Croi breathes the tendril of flame in, choosing to keep it.

“Hey!” She mentally pokes the other self.

What?

“Do you think we’re turning into a dragon? Isn’t that why the Hag kept us away from the fire? She wouldn’t be able to control us if we turned into a dragon. It all makes sense now! The reason why our bones are rebelling and our eyes have that strange liquid shimmer! Why our face looks terrible! We’re turning into a giant lizard. We’re going to have a tail!” Croi doesn’t know how she feels about having a tail.