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Adelaide’s disappeared. Her eyes went wide, like she’d just realized a huge mistake.
    â€œYou
cannot
tell Fife that,” she ordered. “Or Eliot.”
    â€œEliot wouldn’t make fun of you, though.”
    â€œI just don’t want him to know. It’s private.”
    â€œThen I won’t tell anyone,” said Lottie. “Promise.”
    The girls changed into their nightclothes and, as was their routine, curled up in blankets on opposite sides of the trunk. It was a strange arrangement if Lottie really stopped to think about it: no bed, no chairs, no table, just one wide cushion inside a giant yew tree. Yet for all its strangeness, it was comfortable. It almost made up for all the nightmares.
    Almost.

    Lottie woke to Adelaide jabbing angrily at her stomach.
    â€œMake him stop,” Adelaide groaned. “He’s been going on for minutes straight.”
    Lottie’s hand shifted to the pocket of her nightgown. Trouble was still safely bundled inside, but he was squawking with shrill persistence. He wriggled against Lottie’s fingers as she pulled him out.
    â€œTrouble, hush,” she said, stroking his feathers. “
Hush
.”
    Trouble did not hush. His squawks only grew louder. And he had been doing so well these past few days!
    â€œWhat’s wrong with him?”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Lottie, continuing to stroke Trouble. She drew him nearer and placed a comforting kiss atop his head. “Trouble, it’s all right. Shhh.”
    Adelaide rummaged on her side of the trunk. There was a flurry of violet feathers. Lila, Adelaide’s own genga, perched on Lottie’s shoulder and gave one sharp chirrup.
    Trouble stopped squawking. He went deathly still and quirked his head toward Lila.
    Lila chirped again. This time, Trouble bowed his head. He gave a contrite coo.
    â€œWhat just happened?” Lottie asked Adelaide.
    â€œI asked Lila to calm him down. She’s good at it.”
    Adelaide whistled, and Lila returned to her outstretched finger. She patted the bird once, then tucked her out of sight. Lottie looked to Trouble. His chest puffed in and out slowly, as though he were sleeping. Gingerly, she tucked him back into her pocket.
    â€œThank you,” she told Adelaide.
    â€œMm-hm.” Adelaide was pulling a brush through her long, brunette hair in measured strokes. “But you really need to learn how to control him. No one respects a sprite who can’t command her own genga.”
    Adelaide didn’t need to tell Lottie that. It only made her feel worse.
    â€œDon’t say anything to Oliver about this,” said Lottie. “Please? He’ll think I haven’t learned a thing from our lessons.”
    â€œWell, have you?”
    Lottie took some time to think this over. Really, she’d taken a good deal of time in the past month to think about it. Owning a genga was nothing like owning a pet—or at least what Lottie had imagined owning a pet would’ve been like, had Mrs. Yates not been strongly opposed to the very existence of domesticated animals. And “own” wasn’t the right word at all. Lottie did not feel she owned Trouble any more than she owned Eliot or Adelaide. And while Lottie did feel Trouble belonged to her, she also felt she belonged to Trouble. He seemed to be in better spirits when she was happy, lower spirits when she was sad, and particularly rebellious when she was feeling . . . well,
troubled
.
    Oliver had once told Lottie, “We call it genga lessons, because you can teach your genga to do some things: carry objects, deliver messages, fetch help. But in plenty of ways they’re
un
teachable—not because they’re stupid, but because they’re too smart. They’re part of us, and we’re part of them, but we’re completely separate, too. We’ve got our own plans, and they’ve got theirs. And sure, they’ll help us out more