“I will put it in the library with the other parchments. No one will know to look for it. It will simply stay hidden on the shelves… likely for centuries.” He started to roll the parchment into a long column.

“Wait,” Alba said. She dipped her reed into the ink. “If that’s true… there’s one more thing I would like to write.”

Maurus spread the parchment across her lap, then stood to stretch. While she wrote, he strolled in a small circle.

I, THE ORACLE-APPRENTICE, Alba marked carefully, SAW IN A VISION THAT THE KING’S MOTHER GAVE BIRTH TO TWINS. I SAW THE KING’S SERVANT ABANDON THE TWINS IN THE MOUNTAINS. THE HEIR WAS NOT STILLBORN.

Alba hesitated, then continued. I AM TO BLAME FOR THE DEATH OF THE BABES, FOR I GAVE THE KING A TERRIBLE PROPHECY.

She looked over the words she had written, sturdy certainties beetling over the blank space, hurrying out with their knowledge.

Peering over her shoulder, Maurus breathed. “No… oh no.”

“It is the truth.”

“You cannot write this.”

“I should not have said anything. I saw how fragile he was. It’s my fault he felt he had to abandon the babes. It’s my fault the babes were… lost.”

“I cannot put this into the library… we have to destroy it.”

“No—you must make sure it is kept! Please. You said no one would find it.”

Maurus shook his head. “No, before—it was only us on the parchment. If anyone saw… well, we would not risk more than we are risking now, here, sitting in the dark. But you write of the king. Of deeds the king has done. This can’t be found. Ever.”

“Please.” Alba pushed the parchment toward the boy. “I have to know that this… that this truth is somewhere. That it exists.”

“Alba,” the boy said, and Alba started at hearing her name said aloud.

“Maurus,” she said, and the boy started, too. “Please.”

An owl shrieked in the distance. Alba shivered, and the boy, seeing her shiver, nodded.

“This is a terrible risk,” he said, but he took the parchment.

“It is a terrible truth,” Alba said. “Thank you… Maurus.”

XVIII

ALL-TOOTHY FUR

The next day found Rae still singing. She sang as she shook out her bedding—Wolf in the den; she sang as she dipped her bread into milk—the dark of the earth. She sang as she helped Nessa tend to the ewes—the creeping of root; she sang as she helped Mop carry water from the stream—the scruffling of dirt. She sang all through their morning chores and noonday meal, and when the afternoon grew warm and still, all the sheep even tranquil in the fields, Nessa finally sent her out.

“Enough, child!” Nessa said. “Dear daughter, enough! A body needs some quiet. Go, go out of doors for a while. You have too much energy for me today.”

So Rae ran out into the sunshine, out across the stream, and up into the meadows. She stood facing the hills and bellowed out her song again and again, listening to the land send it back to her, her voice transformed by trees and cliffs and air: wolf dark root dirt beast fur empty empty empty. Tiring at last of this game, she lay down in the grass. The seed heads fanned over her, half shadowing, half tickling her. Closing her eyes, she listened to the wind pushing through the field: She felt it still full of her words, and the longer she listened, the further she fell into the warm hushing quiet, until, without meaning to, she drifted into the warm hushing quiet of sleep.