“It’s a big family,” Brella conceded with a heavy sigh. “It’s strange to be in the forest without them, though.”

Scratch wanted to ask where all those siblings thought Brella and Vel were now, but, savoring this tenuous peace, she decided to save the harder questions for later.

“How often do you go to the Between?” she asked instead.

“A few times a season.”

“Where does it take you?”

“Oh gods, where doesn’t it?” A sunbeam shot across Brella’s face, and she raised a hand to shield her eyes. Then, in an instant, she caught herself. “Lots of places.”

“Like . . .” Scratch prompted.

Brella eyed her warily, her face carefully blank. Assessing. It was a look Scratch recognized from her own face: a cautious, deliberate shell that hid the skilled work of deciding whether to share something truly worth sharing. It was apparent that Brella, like Scratch herself, rarely doled out precious things, meaningful things, and only then to the people who deserved to hear them.

It hit her with the blinding brightness of a sun suddenly unimpeded by cloud cover: she wanted Brella to tell her about the Between. She wanted it desperately. Because Brella, for some reason, didn’t like soldiers. Because Brella, for some reason, didn’t like her.

Everyone thought they had the measure of Scratch, that they could see the parts of which she was composed and decide what sort of person those combined bits made up. Everyone had been wrong. And so the need built (and built and built) to show Brella that Scratch was worth the telling. That it would be a pleasure—no, an honor for Brella to lay her stories at Scratch’s feet.

Brella, for whatever reason, thought she knew exactly who Scratch was. Scratch didn’t know much about the other woman, but she knew at least that Brella was wrong.

“I’ll listen,” she tried. “I’m not just trying to make conversation. I’m curious.”

Brella’s eyes narrowed further, little lines appearing beside them. At last she sighed. “All right. Koravia, sure, but once my sister Maisie and I went to the Bargard Cliffs. We were so high up, I thought I could reach out with my tongue and taste a cloud.” She paused. A dark flush spread across her cheeks and nose. “I couldn’t.”

Scratch’s mouth went dry. “Where else?”

As she talked—and as Scratch listened—Brella’s tension eased. She had seen the deep eastern caverns, glistening striations of ore spinning down into the darkness. She had seen the sulfurous pools of Kerir, steaming swaths of impossible green reflecting sunlight like stained glass. She had even smelled the flowers of Gundoor; those had made her pass out for a few hours.

“Worth it though,” she said. “I still remember the smell. Nothing smells like that.”