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among the other Elders. Promise me you’ll try, Antain. Please.”
    Antain shuffled toward the door, the Grand Elder gliding just behind. The older man lifted his hand to rest on the boy’s shoulder and let it hover just above for a moment, before thinking better of it and letting it drift back down.
    â€œI’ll try harder, Uncle,” Antain said as he walked out the door. “I promise I will.”
    â€œSee that you do,” the Grand Elder said in a hoarse whisper.

    F ive days later, as the Robes swept through the town toward the cursed house, Antain was home, sick to his stomach, vomiting his lunch. Or so he said. The other Elders grumbled during the entire procession. They grumbled as they retrieved the child from its pliant parents. They grumbled as they hurried toward the sycamore grove.
    â€œThe boy will have to be dealt with,” the Elders muttered. And each one knew exactly what that meant.
    Oh, Antain my boy, my boy, oh Antain my boy!
Gherland thought as they walked, tendrils of worry curling around his heart, cinching into a hard, tight knot.
What have you done, you foolish child? What have you done?

7.
    In Which a Magical Child Is More Trouble by Half
    When Luna was five years old, her magic had doubled itself five times, but it remained inside her, fused to her bones and muscles and blood. Indeed, it was inside every cell. Inert, unused—all potential and no force.
    â€œIt can’t go on like this,” Glerk fussed. “The more magic she gathers, the more magic will spill out.” He made funny faces at the girl in spite of himself. Luna giggled like mad. “You mark my words,” he said, vainly trying to be serious.
    â€œYou don’t know that,” Xan said. “Maybe it will never come out. Maybe things will never be difficult.”
    Despite her tireless work finding homes for abandoned babies, Xan had a deep loathing for difficult things. And sorrowful things. And unpleasant things. She preferred not to think of them, if she could help it. She sat with the girl, blowing bubbles—lovely, lurid, mostly magical things, with pretty colors swirling on their surfaces. The girl chased and caught each bubble on her fingers, and set each of them surrounding daisy blossoms or butterflies or the leaves of trees. She even climbed inside a particularly large bubble and floated just over the tips of the grass.
    â€œThere is so much beauty, Glerk,” Xan said. “How can you possibly think about anything else?”
    Glerk shook his head.
    â€œHow long can this last, Xan?” Glerk said. The Witch refused to answer.
    Later, he held the girl and sang her to sleep. He could feel the heft of the magic in his arms. He could feel the pulse and undulation of those great waves of magic, surging inside the child, never finding their way to shore.
    The Witch told him he was imagining things.
    She insisted that they focus their energies on raising a little girl who was, by nature, a tangle of mischief and motion and curiosity. Each day, Luna’s ability to break rules in new and creative ways was an astonishment to all who knew her. She tried to ride the goats, tried to roll boulders down the mountain and into the side of the barn (
for decoration,
she explained), tried to teach the chickens to fly, and once almost drowned in the swamp. (Glerk saved her. Thank goodness.) She gave ale to the geese to see if it made them walk funny (it did) and put peppercorns in the goat’s feed to see if it would make them jump (they didn’t jump; they just destroyed the fence). Every day she goaded Fyrian into making atrocious choices or she played tricks on the poor dragon, making him cry. She climbed, hid, built, broke, wrote on the walls, and spoiled dresses when they had only just been finished. Her hair ratted, her nose smudged, and she left handprints wherever she went.
    â€œWhat will happen when her magic comes?” Glerk asked again and again.