It’s my face. With shorter hair. Dressed all in black.

Briar grins with my sister’s mouth. “This one is some of my finest work yet. Keeping an eye on her these past years has been entertaining, even though she still has no idea what she is. Such fine craftsmanship. So...human.”

I choke, flinging our hand away from our windpipe. Air rushes in as I scrabble back, making it less than two steps before Gossamer controls our feet again. Briar’s meaning is still unclear, but I can’t focus on fighting Gossamer and try to understand her.

“Well,” Gossamer snaps, “it’s not like I had a choice. This one—” he groans, twisting our torso with the effort of holding me back “—this one freed me.”

What are they saying about my sister? I let Gossamer have the hands, the body. I need to speak more than I need anything else, even to breathe.

But he won’t let go. Gossamer won’t be satisfied with anything except my full self.

Darkness flickers in front of me, and I don’t know if it’s magic, or the shadows of the silvery leaves, or my slipping grip on consciousness. The trees blink at us, and the sound of something tearing through the forest circles closer, howling and shrieking.

They’re already here, I realize. Whatever they are, they’re circling, waiting for Briar to finish with her prey, pacing around us. I can only see them in flashes: fangs, bright eyes, insectlike legs, gleaming claws. Raze must see them, too. He makes a sound in the back of his throat behind us, but he still can’t move.

They better not touch him. I don’t know what I’ll do if they do, but—

The darkness plays over Briar’s form, wreathing her in night, slipping in and out between her nimble fingers. She looks at us through Isolde’s eyes, impassive and vaguely smug, even as we drop. Our bony knees dig into the dirt as Gossamer and I fight for control, but we ignore the jab of pebbles and twigs in our tender skin.

I don’t know who’s winning.

Our fingers scratch at the soft, decomposing leaves as our spine arches and twists, and I don’t know who’s doing what.

I just—I have to—

Finally, I find my voice. “But Isolde is human. I’m the—” I cough, and my sentence is cut off with a strangled cry.

A horrible sound fills the air. At first, I think the creatures watching from the trees are screaming, until I realize it’s tearing our throat raw.

I’m getting too emotional, too desperate.

But so is Gossamer.

When we go almost quiet and our screams die down to whimpers, Briar finally kneels, digging her fingers into our hair. I try to fight back, but Gossamer won’t let me. Tears blur our vision.

“She is, little changeling.” Briar’s teeth flash in a dizzyingly familiar smile as she yanks, pulling our head back sharply. “Just as human as you are.”

That doesn’t make sense. I know what I am. And I know Isolde is—