The Destiny is, to put it mildly, not easy to drive, and we had what I could generously call a learning curve when we first stole it. Luckily, the wagon was built sturdily enough to withstand ramming into a tree every other day or so.

It’s second nature to me now, though. I plant my feet on the floor. The gold velvet curtains covering the front window are one of the few aesthetic choices we never replaced. I like the rich, heavy feel of the fabric when I pull them back almost as much as I resent the man who put them there.

Lightning. Another crack of thunder.

It takes some maneuvering, but I manage to get us out of our riverside spot and on the main road, steering around the ugly stone remnants of the keep that once sat where the bridge is now. Once you’ve seen one set of ruins, you’ve kind of seen them all, even though the dozens of simultaneous disasters that tore the world down all those years ago were all slightly different. Here, I think it was flash flooding, water moving so fast it carved through stone and wiped out the city.

Hopefully we’re not in for more of that with this torrential autumn rain, which is already churning the road into slick mud. It’s still dark, the only spots of light sparkling on raindrops as they splat loudly on the front window.

We’re on our way. There’s no going back now.

I remember that ice-cold voice in the back of my mind: It would need to be a changeling, wouldn’t it?

I’ve been needed before. People say lots of things about changelings—that we’re less than human, that we all have magical power beyond measure, that we don’t feel joy or sorrow or pain. They try to bend us to the shape of the child they’d wanted or despair completely at our very existence. But they also say that we can grant wishes, or return a changeling baby to the faeries, or solve any alchemical equation, or every other absurd request I’ve had to turn down over the years.

It’s an inconvenience to be unwanted. It’s a curse to be needed.

By the time my sister wakes, the sun has been up for hours. The inside of the wagon is lit in pale pink and gray light, and rain still taps gently on the roof. The smell of freshly brewed coffee drifts from the pot still sitting on the stove as I sit cross-legged in the driver’s seat, sipping my cup.

Isolde wakes with a jolt and a scream. I glance over my shoulder. She’s flailing, almost falling out of bed.

“Good morning!” I say cheerfully.

Her hair sticks up in every direction, a mess as confused as her sleepy face. “Seelie! Wha—Where—?” She looks around, dazed. “We’re moving.”

“We needed to leave as early as possible.” I look down at my palm, which I’ve been studying over the more boring stretches of road, and I realize I may be coming off as a little frantic.