Jaren cast a sheepish glance at his father as he walked to the washbasin. “I wish I could blame my tardiness on sprites or will-o’-the-wisps, Father. But—”

Before he could go on, his entire family finished for him. “You got lost.”

He nodded. “I got lost.” He’d never spent a night in these woods before, and he was grateful he’d managed to find his way home when he woke with the dawn.

“Of course you did.” His oldest sister, Summer, smiled at him from where she sat whittling by the fire. She was as warm as her name implied, the gentlest of his three sisters. “You were daydreaming again, weren’t you?”

“Head in the clouds, feet in the mud,” his middle sister sang, tutting at his filthy boots. As twins, Story and Jaren were closest in both age and bond, though Story had been born first and liked to lord those eleven minutes over him whenever possible.

Their youngest sister, Sofia, was still the baby of the family at fifteen. They called her Tadpole, mostly because she’d been as wriggly as frog spawn from the time she could move, but also because she pretended to hate it. Currently, she sat on their sofa, braiding her long red hair. “You didn’t find any early spring flowers for me, did you? I’m so tired of all this.” She waved her hand vaguely toward the front door.

“You could look for flowers yourself,” Summer said.

“No flowers.” Jaren held up his basket. “But I did find some wild onions.”

Tadpole folded her arms across her chest, pouting. “I hate onions.”

Story yanked on her little sister’s braid, just hard enough to let her know she was being rude. “Then learn to cook your own food. It’s time you did something useful around here.”

Their father tapped a wooden spoon against the pot, his way of telling his children to settle down. Since their mother died, he had bravely taken over the cooking, and they’d all been surprised to find he was a much better chef than his late wife. None of them mentioned it, however. Stepan wouldn’t have wanted anyone insulting his darling Sylvie’s cooking, no matter how inedible.

“Leave Tad alone,” he called over his shoulder. “She’s tired.”

“From what?” Story asked, her brown eyes wide with incredulity. “Sitting?”

Jaren left his sisters bickering in the family room and climbed up to his loft to change. His sisters shared the sole bedroom, while their father slept on a pallet by the fire. The girls fought constantly, but Jaren sometimes envied their closeness. He knew he was excluded from their most intimate conversations because he was a boy, not because they didn’t love him, but it made him feel separate from them. The fact that he was a dreamer and easily distracted didn’t help.