She has that high vertiginous feeling you get when you haven’t slept. A kind of dizziness, or giddiness, or both. She’s had too much coffee and not enough food and her body aches with victory, every piece of it: the small, strong muscles in her feet and hands, the bands of tight ligaments at her ankles and her elbows, the deep sockets of her hips. A good day. A very good working day. A day when Maeve was fully Maeve again, her body a beautiful streak, every line of her a machine that moves and changes, angle to curve, curve to angle, then changes again.

Her neck and her shoulders are stiff; her limbs feel swollen, but not numb. A heat to her skin. She is swelling within herself.

Expanding. Limitless and powerful.

There’s a gap in the trees, and a sudden smack of wind almost knocks her back, but she thrusts her way against it. Not just a woman, but a giant. Coming hard through the forest. Hip-deep in snow.

Close to the center she breaks through a snowbank and falls into a new path. Tire tracks, freshly made. There’s the hum of an engine nearby and she squints through the growing squall to see a pickup, chains on its tires, rumbling slowly toward the road.

She comes into the building, shaking the snow off her clothes, out of her hair. There’s a light in the dining hall and she follows the sound of voices: Anna’s mild drawl, Karo’s clear inflection, a low murmur that she knows is Sim. She hasn’t missed dinner.

Justin raises his camera and trains it on her as she walks in—the ubiquitous documentary.

“Here we have dance impresario Maeve Martin,” he says, looking up at her from behind the lens. “Just in time to hear the news.”

Karo says, “Where did you get that coffee urn?”

“Must have been up early this morning.”

It’s Dan who answers, before Maeve can get a word in. He’s not at the table with the others but standing apart, back to the wall. She hadn’t even seen him there, but he raises his mug now in greeting.

Sadie scrapes her fork across her plate.

“We haven’t had an early riser here since Elisha,” she says. “Since Elisha left, I mean.”

It takes Maeve a moment to remember the name—Elisha Goldman, the painter Sadie mentioned. The woman who had a terrible accident. The comment would almost feel threatening, except Sadie hasn’t aimed it at Maeve. For some reason, she looks pointedly at Sim. Maeve has that new-girl feeling again, like she’s always missing something.

Sim doesn’t take the bait, or say anything at all; he only shrugs half-heartedly. He holds his gaze on Maeve, though, a long moment of it. The edge of a smile playing at his mouth. As though he’s trying to keep his lips closed.