He blinked back tears and headed inside.

A second after he’d taken a seat at the table, Master Pilzmann cleared his throat. “Did you wash your hands? Your fingernails?”

“I…” Barclay looked down, his cheeks hot. Dirt still crusted under his nails. No matter what he did, he never managed to fit in.

His chair made a loud screech as he stood up and hurried to the sink. He dunked his hands into the pail and scrubbed until his skin pruned and his knuckles reddened. He didn’t usually mind the dirt, just like he preferred his hair long. But now he couldn’t look at his hands without all the events of the day rushing back to him.

As he scoured the dirt from under each fingernail, he thought about all the years spent trying to convince Dullshire to accept him, all to be ruined by something that wasn’t his fault. And he couldn’t help thinking how Dullshire had bullied him about things outside of his control his entire life. None of it was fair.

Neither he nor Selby ate much at supper—Barclay because he was far too nervous to stomach any food, Selby because he didn’t like mushrooms.

“And here I thought carrots had been totally banned for years,” Master Pilzmann prattled. “Turns out, I’d been confusing them with turnips this whole time! I’m very glad to be straightened out—I’ve been so put off with Mrs. Kraus. Hard to trust your neighbors when they could be running an illicit produce stand…”

Barclay, normally interested in town gossip, paid no attention.

At some point the topic of conversation must have changed, because Master Pilzmann leaned over and touched Barclay’s damp hair and Barclay flinched. Master Pilzmann’s hand was dangerously close to the Mark.

“I’ll cut this tonight. It’s much too long.… I know that’s how you like it. But I do agree with Mr. Jager—it’s starting to look rather wild. And—”

“I do like it long,” Barclay said sharply, leaning away from him.

“But it’s…” Master Pilzmann sighed, and the sound of it made Barclay’s heart clench.

“Am I a good apprentice?” Barclay asked quietly.

“What? Of course you are.” The man’s face softened. “What’s brought this sullen mood about? It’s only bad luck you didn’t find the Mourningtide Morel! Tricky little grubbers—”

“Then why does it matter if I like my hair long?”

Barclay’s voice was louder than he’d meant it to be, but he was angry. Dullshire’s many rules were meant to keep the citizens safe—especially from the Woods—but so many of them were nonsense. Barclay was smart and dependable, and he tried so hard. So why didn’t all that matter more than a few silly broken rules? Why did it feel so impossibly hard to belong?

Master Pilzmann paled. Barclay never raised his voice at him.

“It’s just that… you stick out quite a bit, my boy. Always dashing about like you’re in a hurry. Filthy as a sheepdog that ran off in the Woods. And the reading so much about adventure… You must know how people talk.…”