It’s Nym’ellia, she realizes with concern. Turning her back on the gorgeous evening, she knocks on the door. “Nym’ellia?” she hesitantly calls. “Can I come in?” Getting no answer and growing more concerned by Nym’s sustained crying, she tentatively opens the door.

Nym’ellia is curled up in a ball on Olilly’s narrow bed, hugging a blanket close, an angry bruise on her temple.

Instantly filled with distress, Olilly goes to her and gently presses her slender hand to the girl’s heaving shoulder. “What happened?”

“I...t-tried to go outside,” Nym’ellia forces out. “To...to see all the puppets. But...they called me a Roach and a Crow. Told me to go back to Gardneria. And then...one of them threw a rock at me and it hurt.” Nym’ellia’s whole face convulses at the memory, her shut eyes tightening as she sobs.

Tears sting Olilly’s eyes as her heart gives a wrenching twist. In just one day, she’s seen how Nym’ellia is treated here, and it’s much worse than what other Westerners endure. At least most of the people have been welcoming to Olilly, some overtly so. But Nym’ellia—she’s hated by so many because she looks Gardnerian, especially with the points of her ears shorn off.

A bold idea overtakes Olilly, springing from her heart with such strength she’s unable to hold it back. Heart thrumming, she reaches up and removes the jeweled and pointed ear-cuffs from her ears, her fingers brushing the scarred arcs of her ears’ mutilated edges.

“I have a present for you,” Olilly says, holding out the ornaments in the palm of her hand.

Her face slick with tears, Nym’ellia gazes at the ear-cuffs. She pulls in a hard breath and shakes her head. “I couldn’t.”

Olilly pushes her offering slightly closer to the girl. “Please. I want you to have them. It’s a gift. For Xishlon.”

“But...” Nym’ellia’s lip trembles as fresh tears fall from her eyes. “They cropped you.”

“Yes, I know,” Olilly says, trauma clawing at the edges of her, but she beats it back. Because this moment feels stronger than all of it. “Just like they cropped you. But everyone knows I’m Urisk. Because I’m purple.”

Nym’ellia sits up and lets Olilly hand her the ear decorations. She stares at the silvery points for a long moment, then looks at Olilly searchingly, but Olilly doesn’t budge in her offer.

“If I wear them,” Nym’ellia says, her expression hardening with pain, “people will yell at me even more. They’ll rip them from my ears and tell me I have no right to wear them. Just like they tell me I have no right to wear Noi clothes.”

Olilly is undaunted. “Then wear them when you’re by yourself. To remember who you are. And to remember that you get to decide that. Not them.”