He remembered yesterday how Ethel had said that the Lufthund looked like him, and Barclay could reluctantly admit that it did. Its wild black fur resembled Barclay’s long hair. Their eyes matched, irises so dark, they blended into the pupil. There was even a similarity to their expressions—equally stubborn, equally wild.

“ ‘There’s a difference between a companion and a monster,’ ” Barclay repeated Tadg’s words under his breath. Looking at the Lufthund, he wasn’t sure. There was something untamable about it, like the wind. But that didn’t make it a monster.

He shakily reached his hand up to touch it, wondering if the action would lose him a few fingers. But the Lufthund didn’t bite him. Instead, Barclay’s fingers ran through its shaggy fur.

“Root,” Barclay murmured. “Your name is Root.”

Root gave a light bark of approval at his name, then he nodded to the right, toward the streets where they had run the previous night. Barclay’s heart gave a thrilled thump. In Sycomore, there was no one to punish him for wild things. For running in the dark of night. For the tangles in his hair, the dirt beneath his fingernails. Barclay was no one here. He was free.

But then a rush of memories returned to him, the kind so precious and painful that he normally kept them locked away. Like his father reading him to sleep each night. How his parents’ house used to smell, like the sage and thyme that grew on the windowsill, like the logs burning on the fire. He remembered his mother’s hair—it was long and black, much like his own. How much they’d loved Dullshire, even with its many, many rules.

And he remembered who he really was: Barclay Thorne, a mushroom farmer’s apprentice and townsboy, the last person who’d ever want to go on an adventure.

Come back, Barclay told him, and Root ignored him, wagging his tail and once again motioning toward the road.

“We’re not running tonight,” Barclay told him bitterly.

Root woofed and padded excitedly in a circle.

“I said no,” Barclay groaned.

Root’s tail fell in disappointment, and this time he didn’t fight returning to his Mark. Barclay stood up, dusted the snow off his coat, and trudged back to the Ironwood Inn. His cheeks were flushed, like they were when he lied. But there was no one around to lie to but himself.

SIXTEEN

On Lecture Day, the day before the second exam, Barclay found himself seated in a crowd in the snowy grass at the edge of Sycomore. Mandeep gave the first presentation of the morning, but Barclay only paid attention to Viola beside him, who continued to quiz him for the practical. She had two open books on her lap: a textbook Ethel had lent Barclay and Murdock’s A Traveler’s Log beside it.

“Where would you find a Tadpike?” Viola asked.

“At this time of year, probably buried near freshwater. It’s too cold for them to be in the river yet,” Barclay answered, and Viola gave him a distracted nod.