So it was over. There would be no wings for her. No sky. For her whole life, she’d wondered what it was like to be borne aloft by the wind. She’d longed to know what clouds felt like. Now she never would, and her chest ached so much she wanted to weep, to release the cold agony of lost hope.

She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t ever weep again. She’d promised herself, and this would at least be one promise she could keep.

Now what? She’d always pushed Jonathan aside when he’d told her to think about the future. She should have listened. Last night’s plan—leaving the farm to return to the sea—was clearly a nonstarter. She was back at the farm because she had nowhere else to go, until she couldn’t stay here anymore either.

No flying. No storms. Hæra was much more likely to meet her end at the hands of the whirlpool witch after all. Or at the teeth of her own kin.

Her kin must’ve been on her mind lately. Last night, she thought she’d seen one of them. On the beach, just for a moment, Hæra had been sure she’d seen a horse’s head popping above the water. But when she’d looked more closely, there had been nothing. Only the dark waves. She’d been paranoid.

Nevertheless, she’d urged Madeleine off the beach and back to her creaky hotel with its talkative proprietor. Even if no rogue member of the herd had been lurking, Madeleine might have run into other dangers, drunk as she’d been. If Hæra couldn’t kill her, nothing else was going to either.

At least there was one consolation. Hæra had clearly made as big an impression on Madeleine six years ago as Madeleine had made on her.

You already ate me up, she’d said. There’s only bones left.

Hæra snorted. Metaphors only got you so far. Now the literal truth had her sitting on the back steps while she contemplated her inevitable demise.

But she’d given herself one gift. She’d known Madeleine might try, this morning, to tell herself it had all been a drunken hallucination. Humans were fond of mental tricks like that.

Hard luck. A shred of blue fabric lay crumpled in Hæra’s palm.

She wouldn’t let Madeleine pretend everything was ordinary. She couldn’t hurt Madeleine’s body, but her clothes were fair game. Let there be proof that something had happened, something that mattered.

Hæra would remember too, for however long she was able, however long her life kept a shape she recognized.

Possibly not for long, then.

Madeleine’s day was not off to an optimal start.