“The young woman who sells honey. She left the island about six years ago now. A local family took her in, and she’s been with them ever since.”

For a moment Jaren was sure he’d misheard. It wasn’t that he’d expected Endlans to have horns sticking out of their foreheads, but the honey girl seemed so...normal.

Lars chuckled, as if he could tell what Jaren was thinking. “I know. It’s strange to think someone like her came from such an awful place. But it’s true.”

“Why doesn’t she speak about it?”

“I imagine it’s too painful,” Lars speculated. “She had a family there.”

Jaren nodded, but inside he was thinking that the honey girl had been fortunate. She’d gotten out, unlike the girl he’d seen the day of that festival. He tried to imagine her slitting an animal’s throat but couldn’t.

Later that week, when the farmer’s market returned, and with it, the honey girl, Jaren couldn’t help but go to her stall for a closer look. Story was busy choosing fabric for new dresses for herself and her sisters, and if history was any guide, she would be occupied for hours.

Aimlessly perusing the jars of honey, Jaren waited for the girl to finish helping another customer. Finally, she turned her attention on him.

“Can I help you?” she asked, a lilt of amusement in her voice.

“Er, I was just wondering, where do you get your honey from?” It was a ridiculous question. He couldn’t have cared less where it came from. And it was hardly a good way to learn about Endla. But he had never been good at making small talk, and he had to start somewhere.

“My parents keep bees in a meadow not far from here,” she said as she packaged up a bottle for another customer. “Oh, here they are now.”

A man and a woman materialized out of the crowd, back from doing their shopping, by the look of things. Both of them carried baskets full of food.

“My parents,” the girl said. “Oskar and Marta Rebane.”

“And who might you be?” the woman asked, sizing Jaren up. He was tall for his age and not scrawny, but something about her made him feel rather small.

“My name is Jaren Kask,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Not the same Jaren Kask who went to Lake Luma and brought back a vial of poisonous water?” she asked, but there was a teasing quality in her voice similar to her daughter’s. “You’re practically famous here in Bricklebury. Isn’t he, Lupin?”

Jaren could feel the girl’s eyes on him. “I’m afraid that’s me, ma’am,” he said.

Marta exchanged a glance with her husband and picked up a jar of honey. “Here you are, then. For your mother. She must have quite a job of keeping you safe.”