She listened, wondering if Harlisona was nearby or deep within the tunnels. If the latter, she might not come out for days. But a few seconds later, Mayka had her answer: she heard the scrabbling of stone against stone, and a second stone rabbit—​Harlisona—​poked her head out of the hole. She wrinkled her nose as if sniffing the air, even though she couldn’t smell any more than Mayka could, then hopped out.

“Do you mind if I take a look at you?” Mayka asked. “Just to check your marks.” Maybe I’m overreacting. Surely we have decades and decades left. Dersy is a worrier, and Jacklo’s so trusting he’ll believe anything he’s told. She’d examine Harli, then reassure Dersy and Jacklo that there was nothing to be scared of.

The rabbit nodded. She didn’t talk much. Or really, at all. Not in years. She’d lost the mark for speech soon after Father died—​it had chipped off in an accident, and they hadn’t known how to fix it. Scooching closer, Harlisona let Mayka examine her back. Dirt clung to the grooves of the rabbit’s markings, and Mayka gently cleaned it out with her fingers. She felt along the marks. The ridges were less sharp, and a few of the symbols were harder to read than she remembered.

Oh no. It is worse.

Mayka looked again at Dersy, more closely this time—​his marks weren’t crisp anymore either. In fact, the one on his leg that said he could jump high looked chipped. Is it all of us? Ever since Turtle stopped, she’d been hoping it wasn’t true. I’ve been lying to myself.

“Mayka, I know you don’t want to hear it, but . . .” Dersy began.

“You’re right,” Mayka said. “I don’t.”

Stay calm, she told herself. Stone should be calm. She needed to steady herself and think. Crossing to the fishpond, she sat on a rock shaped like a tree stump and peered into the water. Streams fed into the pond, and they’d planted lilies all around it—​she didn’t know how many years ago, but since then, the plants had spread and multiplied into a bank of curved green leaves. In the height of summer, they bloomed with orange flowers.

Back from giving water to the goats, the stone fish swam in lazy circles. Only three of Father’s miraculous fish were left. He’d been so very proud of them, but the water eroded their markings quickly, and the ones that remained could no longer speak. We’re all fading, she admitted. First the fish, then Turtle. Next, all of us.

We don’t have decades.

Maybe not even years.

Maybe it was only months until the next one of them felt themselves slowing, or weakened and chipped. You need to face the truth, she told herself.