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my hair. He knows my argument—that an educated Outlander could return to his or her tribe and make it better. But he didn’t go back to his tribe, and has no intention to. Why would anyone with a chance at a better life ever go back to fighting the Woven and living in poverty?
    â€œLady?” asks a tentative voice by the door. Rowan turns and we both look across my rooms. It’s Gavin, a new page and a possible future mechanic of mine—if he can survive Rowan’s exhausting training, that is.
    â€œWhat is it?” I ask, noticing Gavin’s drawn expression.
    â€œIt’s your mother, Lady Samantha,” Gavin says. “She’s on the wall.”
    I’m standing before he can say any more. “What is she doing up there?” I ask calmly, trying not to scare Gavin.
    â€œShe’s … balancing,” the boy says timidly. “Right on the edge, like it’s a game.”
    I’m running now. I feel chilled and ungrounded, as if all the weight had been stolen out of my body.
    As we exit my keep, Rowan is in my thoughts, telling me he’s with me and that we’ll fix it together. He likes to fix things—needs to, actually—but I fear my mother’s fractured mind is in too many pieces for anyone to mend.
    â€œWhere?” Rowan asks the page. Gavin points in a northerly direction toward the tip of the oval wall that surrounds the miles-long city. She couldn’t be farther away from my southerly, east-side keep. Rowan’s willstone glitters as he weaves a field of still air around him. Undistorted air is easier to see through, and his vision is sharpened. He sees his target and takes me up against his side. I feel the familiar tug of his willstone, urging me to give him strength.
    For a moment I teeter on a precipice of my own, wanting to possess him. He’s so open. I could take over his will, but I resist as I almost always have in the past. I gather my energy, change it into force, and pour it into his willstone. Pure power pumps in his veins and we share in the heady rush of my strength in his body. He leaps upward, the ground shrinks beneath us, and in seconds we have flown to the top of the colossal wall that surrounds the city of Salem. We alight on Walltop. I have read of a wall like this in China. It is rumored to be much longer, but not nearly as tall as this. I dream of going there one day, but I doubt I ever will. This whole continent has been cut off from the others for the same reason we built this wall. The Woven.
    Walltop is like China in a way. It is a world apart with its own rules and customs—a world that exists two hundred feet above the city of Salem. Generations have served up here. They even have their own slang and a distinct accent. Technically, I am the absolute ruler of Walltop. The Council and the Coven don’t have any say up here, and my word is law. But secretly I know that Walltop is run according to its own complicated set of rules that I don’t fully grasp.
    â€œThe Lady of Salem,” announces Leto, the ranking captain. A flurry of stiff backs and crisp salutes follows.
    â€œCaptain Leto,” I say in greeting. I break off when I see my mother.
    She’s in her nightgown. It’s frayed and soiled at the hem as if it’d been dragging through mud for hours. Her hair, a riot of flame-red curls like mine, is tangled and frizzy. Her bare feet tread the very edge of Walltop. They are so dirty I can barely see the blood from where she’s torn a toenail. The only reason I know it’s torn is from the crimson footprints in her wake. Her face is serene and a small smile softens the corners of her mouth, but her eyes blink and burn with an unhealthy light. A strange shame flowers hot pink in my cheeks. It isn’t her nightgown or hair or bloody feet—it’s the insanity in her eyes that I’m ashamed of.
    â€œMom,” I whisper. There’s something about seeing my