“A strange gift, indeed,” Father says, stroking his chin. “Very well. Only time will tell whether thank–or payment—are in order, so you will excuse me for not offering either just yet.”

“You’ll take him, then?” Pratt seems both relieved and incredulous.

“For a while, at least.”

“You’re not afraid?”

Father smiles. “From what you say, Pratt, he’s only a youth, and a dimwitted one at that. The deeds you accuse him of would require knowledge that few people possess, not to mention a deceitful and murderous spirit. The poor wretch hardly sounds capable.”

Pratt shakes his head. “For your sake, Luxton, I hope you’re right. But if you want my advice—keep him out of the kitchen.”

With that, Pratt strides to the door. Father and I follow him outside. The huddled figure still teeters and sways on the back of Pratt’s horse. Without offering so much as a word, Pratt unties the bundle from the saddle, lifts it off the horse, and heaves it to the ground.

As he does I catch a glimpse—a tangled mess of black hair above a pale, high forehead.

Pratt untethers his horse and swings himself up and astride. He looks down at Father and me, and then at the piteous figure in the dirt. For a moment it seems as if he might say some words of farewell.

“Hey-ah!” he grunts, then kicks his horse hard, and they are off.

Father and I stand wordlessly as the hoofbeats fade into the distance. A passing cloud covers the sun and sends a sudden chill across the courtyard.

“It is a shame your former master left in such a hurry,” Father remarks to the mysterious figure on the ground. “It seems he was eager to be rid of you. Yet with a few minutes of friendly conversation we might have persuaded you to tell him exactly what it was that you dumped in the village well.”

There is movement, wriggling. The mummylike wrapping loosens. First the dark, tousled hair emerges, followed by the high, pale forehead. Then two wide emerald green eyes appear.

My breath catches in my chest at the sight. I have never seen such beautiful eyes—like twin jewels. No monster could possess features of such beauty. All my fear of this new arrival dissolves in an instant.

Those hypnotic green eyes stare at Father, expressionless as glass.

“Was it monkshood, perhaps? Or angel’s trumpet? No matter; someone will figure it out eventually, though a few delirious villagers may leap to their deaths in the meantime. And you are called Weed, eh?” Father opens the door of the cottage and gestures for Weed to enter. “The perfect name for an unwanted sprout like you. Now unswaddle yourself from those rags, and come inside. I wish to discover exactly what sort of a gift you are.”

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