hare in a stream, and taken care to field-dress it properly.
He always brought a gift when he came to see William. He was going into his den, and William didn’t have to let him in. It was polite to bring a present.
Jack grimaced. He wasn’t very good at polite, according to his sister, Rose. But William and he never had an issue. They were both changelings, and some things were unspoken but understood: bring a gift, don’t show your teeth, don’t stare at Cerise for too long. Not that he liked Cerise like that. It was just that she was William’s wife, and when Jack tried to explain things, it made sense to her. When he tried to explain things to his own sister, he got chewed out.
And that was precisely the problem.
Around him, the late-summer forest teemed with life. Tiny squirrels chased each other through the branches, chittering in outrage at some perceived slight. Forest mice scurried between the roots of huge Weird oaks. Butterflies floated on the breeze like bright petals. Although Jack had been born in the Edge, he liked the Weird’s forests. They were old and powerful and held magic secrets. Still, he missed hunting in the Edge woods, creeping up on soft paws along the branches of a huge tree, smelling the moss, and hunting Edge critters in the dusk. It was the last time he remembered being really free.
A small yellow butterfly glided closer, bouncing up and down on air currents above his head. He paused, frozen.
Up and down, bright yellow wings. Bounce, bounce, bounce . . .
Jack jumped a couple of feet into the air and swatted at the butterfly with his hand. Ha! Got it.
He opened his fingers carefully. The butterfly crawled up his palm, fluttering the lemony yellow wings. It climbed the heel of his hand, onto his thumb, spread its wings, and glided off, leaving a faint yellow dust on his skin. He watched it fly away with an odd longing. It was not that he wanted to be one. Butterflies couldn’t hunt, couldn’t speak, and their lives were short. But butterflies could fly about carefree. They didn’t have to worry about being sent off to military prison schools.
Jack sighed, sniffed the traces of powder on his palm—they smelled dry and flowery—and went on his way.
Four years ago, he, George, and Rose had lived together in the Edge, a narrow strip between the Broken of no magic and the Weird of too much magic. They lived in an old house. They were poor. Really, really poor. He didn’t understand how poor they were until they came to the Weird. Their mother had died. Jack didn’t remember her that well, except for a faint scent. He had smelled something similar once, in the perfume of a girl at a ball, and that scent had opened a big gaping hole inside him. He’d had to leave right then, so he’d gone over the top-floor balcony into the trees, and when he’d returned in the morning, he had to go into Declan’s office and explain himself.
With their mom dead, their dad had run off. Jack recalled him but only vaguely, just a blurry, man-shaped thing. He remembered the voice, though, a rough, funny voice. Their dad went to look for some treasure and never came back. It was just him, Rose, George, and Grandma. Rose worked all the time. George and he had to go to school in the Broken. George had been slowly dying because he couldn’t let things go. Every time George had found something that had died, a bird, a kitten, Grandpa, he’d bring it back to life—but it took his own life force to keep it going. Right before they moved to the Weird, George had brought back so many things, he was sick all the time.
Jack sighed. People had picked on George, but he’d always fight for him. That was his job, Jack reflected. He protected George and Rose. He was a changeling, a predator. Stronger and faster than other people even in the Broken, without magic.
And then Declan came from the Weird. Big, strong, wearing armor and carrying swords, and blowing houses up with a flash so powerful it was like
He always brought a gift when he came to see William. He was going into his den, and William didn’t have to let him in. It was polite to bring a present.
Jack grimaced. He wasn’t very good at polite, according to his sister, Rose. But William and he never had an issue. They were both changelings, and some things were unspoken but understood: bring a gift, don’t show your teeth, don’t stare at Cerise for too long. Not that he liked Cerise like that. It was just that she was William’s wife, and when Jack tried to explain things, it made sense to her. When he tried to explain things to his own sister, he got chewed out.
And that was precisely the problem.
Around him, the late-summer forest teemed with life. Tiny squirrels chased each other through the branches, chittering in outrage at some perceived slight. Forest mice scurried between the roots of huge Weird oaks. Butterflies floated on the breeze like bright petals. Although Jack had been born in the Edge, he liked the Weird’s forests. They were old and powerful and held magic secrets. Still, he missed hunting in the Edge woods, creeping up on soft paws along the branches of a huge tree, smelling the moss, and hunting Edge critters in the dusk. It was the last time he remembered being really free.
A small yellow butterfly glided closer, bouncing up and down on air currents above his head. He paused, frozen.
Up and down, bright yellow wings. Bounce, bounce, bounce . . .
Jack jumped a couple of feet into the air and swatted at the butterfly with his hand. Ha! Got it.
He opened his fingers carefully. The butterfly crawled up his palm, fluttering the lemony yellow wings. It climbed the heel of his hand, onto his thumb, spread its wings, and glided off, leaving a faint yellow dust on his skin. He watched it fly away with an odd longing. It was not that he wanted to be one. Butterflies couldn’t hunt, couldn’t speak, and their lives were short. But butterflies could fly about carefree. They didn’t have to worry about being sent off to military prison schools.
Jack sighed, sniffed the traces of powder on his palm—they smelled dry and flowery—and went on his way.
Four years ago, he, George, and Rose had lived together in the Edge, a narrow strip between the Broken of no magic and the Weird of too much magic. They lived in an old house. They were poor. Really, really poor. He didn’t understand how poor they were until they came to the Weird. Their mother had died. Jack didn’t remember her that well, except for a faint scent. He had smelled something similar once, in the perfume of a girl at a ball, and that scent had opened a big gaping hole inside him. He’d had to leave right then, so he’d gone over the top-floor balcony into the trees, and when he’d returned in the morning, he had to go into Declan’s office and explain himself.
With their mom dead, their dad had run off. Jack recalled him but only vaguely, just a blurry, man-shaped thing. He remembered the voice, though, a rough, funny voice. Their dad went to look for some treasure and never came back. It was just him, Rose, George, and Grandma. Rose worked all the time. George and he had to go to school in the Broken. George had been slowly dying because he couldn’t let things go. Every time George had found something that had died, a bird, a kitten, Grandpa, he’d bring it back to life—but it took his own life force to keep it going. Right before they moved to the Weird, George had brought back so many things, he was sick all the time.
Jack sighed. People had picked on George, but he’d always fight for him. That was his job, Jack reflected. He protected George and Rose. He was a changeling, a predator. Stronger and faster than other people even in the Broken, without magic.
And then Declan came from the Weird. Big, strong, wearing armor and carrying swords, and blowing houses up with a flash so powerful it was like
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