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sun. The world, so bright with possibilities a moment before, seemed dark and frightening now. Rounding a corner, she lost her footing and hit the ground in a shower of dirt. Over and over she rolled, until she came to rest against a stone doorstep. There she lay, weeping. Dust stung her nose and throat. Her knees and elbows throbbed where she had scraped them in her fall. But the greatest pain of all lodged in her heart, where Noa’s words repeated themselves insistently.
    Just then, she heard a voice above her.
    “Are you all right?”
    Jacinth raised her head. From between the dusty strands of her hair, she saw a well-made shoe and the tips of two wooden crutches. Raising her head a bit further, she saw that the shoe fit a foot that was attached to a sturdy leg that was attached to a boy. The boy was clothed in brownwool—coarse, patched, and poorly spun, but clean. He had only one leg. Still, he was tall, and Jacinth could see that he was older than she, perhaps Noa’s age.
    “Are you all right?” he asked again.
    She sat up and brushed her hair away from her face, waiting for his eyes to widen when he realized that she didn’t look like other people. But his expression stayed the same. His pale brow was slightly furrowed, and his clear hazel eyes shone bright with concern.
    With the back of her hand, she wiped the tears away. “Don’t I scare you?” she said.
    The boy looked puzzled. “Well, I was afraid you had hurt yourself.”
    “Oh, I did,” said Jacinth, proudly displaying her bloody elbows.
    The boy pursed his lips, which made him look much more grown-up than he really was. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll get some water and a cloth. My master says it’s bad to leave dirt in a scrape.”
    He turned and hobbled off into the house, which she now recognized as the shop of Bot the cobbler. A few minutes later, he returned with a crockery jug of cool water and a scrap of soft cloth. He stacked his crutches and, with surprisingly little trouble, sat down beside her on the doorstep. Gently, he took one of her elbows in his slender hands and began to clean the bits of gravel and blood from it.
    “You’re Jacinth, the miller’s daughter, aren’t you?” he said. “I’ve seen you before and I’ve heard my master talk about your weavings.”
    Jacinth nodded, suddenly afraid to speak for fear the tears would start again. If he had seen her before, that explained why her face hadn’t frightened him.
    “My name is Joth,” he said. “I … I’m the cobbler’s apprentice.” Color rose suddenly in his cheeks, and he looked away from her, giving more attention to her elbow than it required.
    She watched him silently, wondering at his strange behavior.
    Joth dipped the cloth in the water and looked up again. “You didn’t laugh,” he said.
    “Why should I laugh?”
    Joth shrugged. “Most people think it’s funny that a boy with only one foot makes shoes.”
    Something about Joth’s words gave Jacinth a soft, warm feeling, as if a meadow full of buttercups had bloomed inside her. She looked at him, wondering if she could find some hint of a lie or a trick meant to make her trust him when she shouldn’t. But his clear eyes seemed kind and honest.
    At last she said, “I know. People think it’s funny that a girl with only one eye should weave tapestries or go to see the lily hunt begin, too.” She looked off toward the center of Aranho, where she knew the handsome young men must still be striding through the street on their way to the lilies that grew in the faraway forests. When she looked at Joth again, he was resting his chin in his hands and staring sadly away in the same direction.
    Jacinth felt the tide of tears rising in her once more. “My sister says that no one will ever bring me a lily. She says I’m too ugly.”
    Joth sat up straight and smiled at her as softly as the last light of dusk. “I don’t think you’re ugly,” he said. “I would bring you a lily if I had two good