But why would they? Other places faced war, famine, cruel rulers, and wild beasts. Here, life was peaceful. No one was impoverished or oppressed. The lake protected them better than any sovereign could. The Forest provided for them. And if the cost was that they could never leave, so be it. That’s what Aunt Ketty would say, anyhow.

Leelo kissed her brother’s forehead and closed her eyes. Sage had said her mother was strong, but Leelo didn’t think of her aunt that way. She was hard and brittle as bird bones, as kindling. And Leelo knew all too well that brittle things didn’t bend under pressure.

They broke.

Chapter Eight

“What’s that song you keep humming?” Story asked Jaren as they headed to the market. His oldest sister, Summer, had been desperate to go, probably hoping to see her carpenter, but Tadpole was sick, and someone had to cater to her every whim. Father would have done it himself, but he was out hunting spring hares and wild turkey today. Tad wouldn’t listen to a word Story said, and, given his distractedness, Jaren made a terrible nurse.

His eyes darted to his twin. He hadn’t even realized he’d been humming. Weeks had passed since he went to the lake and saw the girl, and it had taken a disconcerting amount of resolve not to go back. When he’d fished the hatchling from the lake, a part of him was still skeptical about the poison. But after just a few moments in the water, the tiny corpse was already beginning to skeletonize, and any lingering doubts vanished. Still, that didn’t make it magic. There were plenty of poisonous things in nature: berries, mushrooms, insects, plants... Why not a lake?

“Sorry. Just a tune I can’t get out of my head.”

Story raised a hand and pressed her palm to Jaren’s forehead. “Hmm, no fever. I thought perhaps you were coming down with the same thing as Tad.”

“Tad’s not even sick,” Jaren said, brushing her hand away. “She’s just angry because Father says she’s too young to do the shopping, so she’s punishing Summer.”

“I know all her tactics, Jay. But you never sing.”

“What can I say, the fresh spring air is getting to me.” He glanced at Story to see if she would accept the lie or push him further.

She shrugged. “Well, it’s pretty, whatever it is. A little sad, but pretty.”

They had reached the market. It was held every Sunday in Bricklebury, the perfect excuse for all of the locals to congregate and peddle stories along with their wares.

“I saw it. Big as a cow, it was.” The man who was speaking, an old, grizzled fellow, was gesticulating wildly at the gathering crowd. “Must have descended from the giant wolves who roamed these mountains when our grandfathers were young.”