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thought we should take some. I got some fire on a stalk of grass and was flying with it, but it started burning me and I dropped it onto Luna by accident.” He had to choke out the last words, he was sobbing so hard.
    He wanted her to be furious with him. He deserved it. He hoped she would shout and punish him and when all that was over, somehow things would be better. Things would be fixed. But his mother looked so far from anger, was so still and mournful, that Griffin felt more frightened than he ever had in his life. “You foolish, foolish children,” she said, so softly Griffin could barely hear her.
    “I didn’t mean to,” he said. “I didn’t know she was underneath me, and I was scared I was going to get burned. I tried to help put the flames out, but they wouldn’t go away.”
    She wrapped her wings around him and held him tightly, and Griffin didn’t know what to think. She shouldn’t be holding him; this was his fault. He hardly dared breathe, wishing he could vanish.
    “You’re so lucky. It could’ve—” His mother cut herself short. “Why did you let them talk you into it?”
    He said nothing, feeling as if all the air were being squeezed out of his lungs.
    He had to tell her. “It was my idea,” he wheezed.
    She looked at him, stunned. “Why?” she managed to ask.
    He couldn’t look at her as he spoke. “So we could have some like the owls. And I thought maybe we could use it to stay warm in the winter. So we could stay here, without having to migrate.”
And so maybe my father would think I had some courage
, he thought, but didn’t say this.
    His mother shut her eyes tight, as though not trusting herselfto speak. When she did, anger flickered through her voice. “Griffin, we don’t want fire. We don’t
need
it. Its only use is for war. We couldn’t keep it inside. It would set the tree on fire. Even if it didn’t, we’d still have nothing to eat through the winter. We’d starve.”
    He nodded. “It was … a really bad idea,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
    “You should have come and told us the moment you saw the Humans.”
    “I know.”
    “You’re sensible, Griffin. Even if the others aren’t.
You
should have known better. I don’t know what you were thinking, stealing fire. If you’d only thought a bit …” She let her voice trail off, as if unable to summon any more energy. Her eyes drifted back to Luna, and Roma, her mother, nuzzling her gently, talking to her quietly. Luna wasn’t saying anything back.
    “When will she be better?” Griffin asked his mother.
    “I don’t know.” She paused, then added, “Maybe never.”
    “What d’you mean?” He felt panic moving through him like a crazed June bug, wings slashing the air, slamming itself everywhere. Did his mother mean Luna might be crippled her whole life? That she’d never fly again?
    “She might die, Griffin.”
    He frowned, not understanding, shaking his head. “But you were all spreading potions on her. The elders know how to fix things like that, right?”
    “She’s very badly hurt.”
    The fur around her eyes was matted with tears. This was all his doing. Griffin knew she was ashamed of him now. He’d disappointed her so badly, how could she ever love him again? And what would his father say?
    “What can I do?” he said, his voice sounding unfamiliar tohim, thin and breathless. He wanted his mother to tell him to do something hard or painful—anything would be better than just being frozen with his feelings.
    “There’s nothing we can do,” his mother said. “We just have to wait.”
    He looked around this place he’d loved so much his whole life, and felt like he had no right to be here. All the other mothers were looking at him—hating him, he was sure. And Luna’s mother—she would hate him most of all, and forever. The tree seemed to echo with his own shame and grief. He couldn’t stand it.
    Griffin flew. Down away from the healer’s roost, all the way down the trunk to Tree