Somewhere between where she stood and the well, Ravael had run off the path to the right. Maybe. Despite the light from a nearly full moon, the place where the girl had tripped and fallen was now masked by shadow and underbrush. Faline stepped gingerly to where the underbrush began, peering into the shadows, looking for some evidence of the girl’s passage.

Luckily, snapped branches and torn vines still remained, offering the first indication that she was getting closer. But doubt crept into her mind. Search parties had been roaming the hillside, so perhaps this was not the path after all. Still, her senses kept prodding her along.

A mound materialized to the left, and a memory clicked into place. The fox den had been nearby. She scrambled to it and searched. A dark opening appeared. She reached in and found something cold and hard. Tracing her fingers around it, she felt an ankle.

Grabbing hold, she pulled. Nothing moved. She tugged harder. Maddeningly, the body slowly began sliding out of the fox den. Bracing her feet against the sides of the den, Faline pulled with all her strength. Sweat formed and quickly poured down her face and arms.

“Potencia,” she whispered. A surge of energy raced through her, and the body slid out faster. Within moments, the now stiff form lay beyond the den.

The magic had worked, but now there were other problems. Several hundred yards remained between her and the bluff, and Ravael was much taller than she was. After considering several options, she rolled Ravael over and attempted to lift the body onto her shoulders. Even with her enhanced strength, the girl’s long limbs dragged along behind, greatly slowing the trek up the hill.

Labored breathing filled the night air. Every now and then, animal noises in the distance tapped on her ears. She stopped to listen, identify what it was, and how close. But, shaking off her concerns, she kept trudging along.

The bluff seemed to hover at an absurd distance from where she was. She resisted any direct glance toward Ravael’s face, for fear that the gore she had seen earlier would have gotten indescribably worse. Several long minutes passed. Her legs wavered, and knees buckled.

Even with the Old Ways, it was impossible for her to haul Ravael through the underbrush to get to the bluff. She stopped to gain some air and, without thinking, looked at the girl’s face.

Ravael’s blood-rimmed eyes, dull and glassy, reflected the moonlight as if to say, “Look what you did, murderer.”

As if growing six times heavier, Ravael’s body pressed down on her. The spell had worn off. Faline dropped to her knees, the form rolling off her shoulders. The sting of guilt pierced her heart. Sobs, low and deep, racked her small form.

How had she gotten herself into this mess, and how was she to get out of it?

Just then, a growl carried in the air. She froze, then looked for the source of the sound. Some distance away, in the trees, a pair of yellow eyes appeared. Her heart began to race.

Wolves.

She’d forgotten that they roamed the hillsides looking for an easy kill, and she certainly qualified. Another pair of eyes appeared to the right of the original pair, then another to the left. It must be a pack.

The forms moved closer, their paws rustling the underbrush, white teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Deep growls, rising and falling like the wind through the trees, lapped menace at her feet. She stepped back, trying to keep Ravael’s form between her and them.

Her options were limited; she could neither run away nor fight them. One animal darted forward and stood just over Ravael’s body, sniffing it, while its angled eyes stared at Faline.

Another joined it, and the last stepped over Ravael’s outstretched legs and began slinking closer. Fear now turned to terror, as Faline realized she had no place to go. She glanced around, but most of the trees near to her were too short to climb.

Still, one a few feet to the left looked promising. Its curved trunk angled up into the foliage canopy that dappled the abundant moonlight. If she could reach it in time, she might be able to scramble up out of the animal’s reach.

A guttural sound erupted from where the wolves stood, and she heard the ripping of cloth.

A wave of revulsion sailed through Faline. But when a ripping snarl came from the wolf closest to her, she turned and raced for the tree. Somewhere behind her, she could hear the wolf bounding toward her, hopping over outstretched branches and underbrush.

Her hands caught a grip on the outer limbs of the tree, and she pulled up with all her strength. Whipping her legs upward, she tried to clamber onto the limb. Instead, her legs wrapped around the rough bark, and she hung below it with an already over-extended grip.

Panting rose from below her, cluing her that the wolf was now below and probably looking for a fresh meal. With a grunt, she pulled herself tight to the limb and wriggled onto its upper surface. All she needed to do now was crawl further up.

A snap and a vicious tug on her shift meant the animal had decided to act before letting her get too far up the tree. Ripping noises carried in the air, and the tug forced her to latch onto the tree for dear life. Thankfully, the fabric ripped away, and the tugging ceased.

She wasted no time, got onto all fours, and raced along the limb, scaling her way through upper branches using feet and hands until she could go no further. After stopping, she looked back, only to find the animal clawing its way from the ground, paws pulling itself along the limb, its narrow head and slick body pressed against the branch, tail whipping from side to side for balance.

In the distance, she could hear snarling and gnawing. A wave of nausea seized her stomach, tying it in knots. The sensation failed to compete with the horror of the approaching animal, panting and snarling.

How was she going to fight this creature off when she had nothing? A loose branch dangled overhead, not very long or thick, but better than nothing. She seized it and waved the piece of wood at the animal.

The beast shook its head and snapped at her with its very white jaws, seizing hold of the stick. With a whip of the head, it ripped the weapon out of Faline’s hand.

After tossing the branch aside, the creature closed in. There was no place else to go, and nothing to defend herself with.

Use the Old Ways, the voice in her head whispered—her own voice now, Grandmama’s knowledge so integrated she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

But how? She knew very little protective magic. Fire. Wolves hate fire.

She stretched out her hand and snapped her fingers, saying the words, “Flam-mah.”

A spark leaped from her fingertips, but that was it. The wolf cringed and turned its head, but didn’t run off.

She tried again, and this time a small flame erupted from her fingertips and cast enough light to reflect in the eyes of the beast. It growled. Then the flame died, and the animal, now seemingly annoyed and out of patience, pounced, closing the distance between them.

Heart thudding wildly, she inched backward. The animal’s jaws opened, clearly moving toward her throat. Fear seized hold, but then something brushed it aside—some deep well of knowledge, instinct, Grandmama’s legacy—and she clamped her hands on either side of the animal’s face.

“CONFLAGRO,” she barked, and a torrent of flame shot out of her hands, enveloping the beast.

A high-pitched shriek followed the wolf as it fell like a burning log rolling out of the fireplace, out of the tree, and into the underbrush. It darted away, leaping and yelping in pain, trying desperately to douse the fire that clung to it.

Tendrils of flame, from the animal’s burning fur, fell into the excessively dry timber and leaves on the ground and spread small pyres that quickly grew and rose in flame, casting light onto the surroundings.

The other wolves of the pack, amid devouring Ravael’s corpse, glanced with consternation at the flames around them, fighting the instinct to flee for a generous meal of opportunity.

The wolf that had plagued her disappeared down the hill, spreading small fires wherever it went until collapsing on the trail, where it tried, in vain, to roll in the dirt and stop the spread of the fire.

Faline watched from her perch in horror as the flames spread faster than she’d anticipated. In quick succession, the small fires merged and began licking at the nearby trees.

“No, no, no,” she whispered, scrambling down from her branch. She had to stop it before—

She thrust her hands toward the nearest fire. “Aqua-maris!” Water magic. Surely she could summon water to douse the flames.

A few drops materialized, hissing as they hit the fire, but nothing more. The spell required a water source, and there was none nearby except the distant well.

The wolves, realizing their danger, darted away, leaving Ravael’s mutilated remains behind.

Faline tried another approach, attempting to smother the flames with earth. “Terra-compresso!”

A small mound of dirt rose up and fell on one fire, extinguishing it. But two more had already sprung up in its place, and her strength was flagging. Each spell drained her more than the last.

The fires were gaining strength and size all around her, fed by months of drought and dry underbrush. They would soon box her in.

She gave up trying to stop them and ran to Ravael’s form, but it was too mutilated for her to stomach. More concerning, though, was that the fires would soon trap her if she didn’t flee.

Trying to keep the smoke out of her lungs, she darted back down the path toward the settlement, coughing and gasping.

At least the body would burn. At least there would be no evidence of what she’d done.

The thought brought no comfort.

* * *

No sooner did she arrive at the settlement than bells began ringing in the community, and adults began piling out of cabins to stare toward the hill and the dull orange glow coming from it.

Faline crept along the edge of the clearing until she reached her cabin and stood under the window shutter. She raised it and peeked in. Movement caught her eye as Papa darted out the door, Mama standing in the opening, peering outside as well.

She slipped a leg over the threshold of the windowsill and started to climb inside.

“Faline,” Mama called in an irritated tone of voice. “Where are you, young-in?”

Faline dropped her feet onto the floor and closed the shutter. “Over here, Mama.”

“What are you doing there?” Mama said, walking rapidly toward her.

“I was trying to look outside at what was happening.”

“No, no, you can’t see anything from there. There is a fire on the hill; the men are going to take a look.” She stepped closer, then stopped, eyes widening. “What have you been doing?”

Faline looked down at her shift; it was torn in several places and covered with dirt and soot.

Mama stared at her. “Were you outside?” she asked.

Faline looked up, tried to think of something to say, some excuse to cover up the fact of what she had done. Then she decided to stop fighting it. “Yes, I went outside… to relieve myself.”

Mama’s eyes narrowed. “And why is that? We have a perfectly good pisspot in the cabin.”

“I know,” Faline replied, hoping the questioning would end soon. “But it was going to be messy.”

“Hmmm,” Mama replied, rubbing her chin. “Well, change your clothes and give me the shift. I’ll see what I can do to fix it. In the meantime, since you’re so concerned about relieving yourself, go empty the pisspot.”

Faline grimaced but did as she was told, carrying the heavy iron bucket outside. The sky was lightening up rapidly, but a haze hung in the air, tainted by the acrid smell of smoke. Men from the settlement continued to stream to and from the hill.

By late afternoon, the haze had grown thick, blanketing the settlement in a thick, smelly blanket of choking ash particles.

Papa appeared with several men; they had streaks of ash on their faces, were drenched in sweat and dirt. He glanced at Faline before standing before Mama. His face was grim but determined.

“How is the fight against the fire going?” Mama asked.

“It had spread to most of the hillside, but we constructed two firebreaks down near the creek.” He again glanced at Faline, in a way that was somewhat severe, and waved her away.

She stepped away as he leaned closer to Mama and whispered, but not so quietly that Faline couldn’t hear what he said. “We found Ravael. She was dead.”

Mama covered her mouth. “Poor Addy, she must be heartbroken. Does she know?”

“Not yet, Kristoff is bringing her the news.”

Papa looked toward Faline again. “Fetch the waterskin.”

Faline ran and grabbed it, but when she turned, Papa was leaning in and whispering in Mama’s ear in such a way that Faline could not hear his words.

Mama stiffened and wrung her hands. “Are you sure?”

“It must be done,” Papa answered, then fixed Faline with a stern look. “You, fill that and go take water to the men.”

Faline nodded and ran to get the bucket and ladle from the cabin. There wasn’t much left in the communal rain barrel, but she could at least give the men some of it.

That evening, they sat around the table in the cabin, each lost in their own thoughts. Papa had returned to the hillside with the other men, just as she finished giving what little water was left to the men on the hillside. He scarcely looked at her, a seemingly cold presence that she could not quite identify.

Was it because of Ravael? Probably. Kristoff was his friend, and he no doubt could feel the man’s pain.

Mama was just as muted when she returned, refusing to meet her eyes. Tears streaked across her face; however, perhaps she felt the reflected pain of Ravael’s death.

In contrast, Faline felt a growing sense of relief that the whole incident was moving past. Though she hadn’t been able to hide the body properly, the fire and the wolves’ arrival had thrown the situation into doubt, making it less likely anyone would blame her for the incident.

But then again, she knew what she’d done and felt a lingering sense of guilt. Still, if the girl had not kept calling her a strega, and then threatened to tell everyone what she had done with the water—

The Old Ways weren’t to be feared; only the ignorance and refusal to see the ability as a gift were the problem. If Ravael had just understood that, none of this would have happened.

Papa stood. Silent and foreboding, he stared at Faline in a way that almost unnerved her. Then his gaze swept toward Mama. His face fell, and she nodded. With that, he turned and walked out of the cabin.

“Where’s Papa going?” Faline asked.

Mama stared at the door. “The Council of Elders is having a meeting tonight. Your father has something to say.”

“Say? Say about what?”

Mama reared on her. “Are you stupid? Ravael is dead.”

So what, Faline thought, with such vehemence that she found it disconcerting. “What did Papa say earlier?”

Mama stared before answering. “Go to bed. I’ve got things to do.”

The directive was odd; she was never sent to bed early unless she’d done something wrong. Had she not shown enough remorse that the girl was dead? She felt bad; of course, the whole situation could have been handled better.

“Move it,” Mama said, grabbing a satchel and stuffing a few traveling items into it.

Faline turned and made her way to the straw pile and lay upon it. The last two days had been a nightmare, one she kept wishing would go away. Ravael was dead, and everyone knew it. That fact would permeate the settlement for days to come, but then would pass, like the smoke that hung outside; as soon as the wind changed, it would disappear.

Faline watched Mama gather a few more things. “What are you doing?”

“Your father is going hunting tomorrow. I need to get his things prepared.”

I wish I could go hunting. But of course, hunting was for the boys, not for the girls. She would have to learn to sew, cook, and clean.

Mama fixed her with a look. “Go on, get some sleep.”

Faline lay down and began drifting off, but the snarling countenance of the wolf would invade and stir her up. During one such episode, she stared at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to attempt to lure her away.

The door to the cabin opened, and Papa entered. She caught his silhouette in the doorway. Mama ran to him, and they whispered to one another. But they were too far away, and Faline could not hear their words.

Sobs echoed throughout the cabin, and Papa embraced Mama. They drifted away to the sleeping area.

For a time, she thought about what they might have said, but then realized it probably was about what to do about Ravael. Silly girl. None of this would have happened if she had just kept her mouth shut.