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wild bush of hair was paler than ever. She was wiry and small for her age, her slight little body topped with a head that seemed large because of all that hair framing a pointy-chinned, snub-nosed face. To Old Bess she seemed too strong for her size, with longer fingers and toes than was common. But if Saaski spied anyone frowning at them, those same fingers and toes suddenly looked as short and chubby as any child’s—though Old Bess could never quite decide whether any real change had occurred.
    It was otherwise with the child’s eyes, which were as variable as ever, shifting from green to smoky gray to match her moods, with glimpses of that startling lilac when she was into mischief—and to a mirrorlike dark that was a defense, Old Bess was sure, against the stares.
    There were always stares, and more than one villager crossed himself as Saaski ran by, for the tales had never quit circulating. There was the poor yield of Yanno’s pea crop one year, and the weevils that got into everybody’s barley malt the next—both were whispered to be Saaski’s doing. When Guthwic’s old cow dropped a two-headed calf, it was soon blamed on that child having “overlooked” the animal in its labor. No use pointing out that Guthwic’s half-grown boys had been there, looking, too.
    Old Bess did her best to stifle the gossip, but day or night Saaski was up to something. She seemed to need little sleep, felt no sensible fear of darkness, and could see as well at midnight as at noon. Despite her frantic parents’ warnings, she would slip outdoors in the wee hours, scramble up onto the thatch and watch the moon awhile, or wanderinto the night. She was forever missing, and Yanno fetching her back from the woods or—oftener—from the moor. Plainly more at home in the wild than in the cottage, thought Old Bess. She held her tongue, but the word she never spoke tolled like a bell in the back of her mind. Sometimes she was tempted to take matters into her own hands and try one of the drastic cures.
    Her best chance came late one autumn. The morning Saaski turned six, Yanno decreed that she must begin to do her share of the family labor, and sent her out with the other little ones to gather firewood. It was her first such encounter without Anwara somewhere near. By then all the young of the village had overheard much of their elders’ talk. Old Bess, gathering leaves and silverweed in the edge of the woods, heard piping voices and drifted silently closer.
    “I know you. You’re the smith’s Saaski.” It was Berenda’s little Raab talking.
    After a moment: “Aye, the smith’s my da’. Who’s yours?”
    “Guin the miller. We’ve got a hun’erd sheep. And a horse. My da’ owns the mill. I’ve got four brothers and three sisters. You haven’t got any.”
    No reply.
    “I know ’cause my mother told me. Here—Oran! It’s the smith’s girl. That one.”
    Other voices: “The freaky-odd one?” “Bretla, cross yourself. Mama said to.” “Why, will she hurt us?”
    A pause of uncertainty. Nobody had an answer. Somebody asked experimentally, “Are you a changeling?” and Old Bess’s heart gave a deep thump.
    Saaski: “What’s that?”
    It was plain nobody really knew. “Somethin’ eldritch,” Raab pronounced at last, adding bossily, “You’re not to pick up our wood. We got here first.”
    Saaski: “ ’Tisn’t anybody’s wood. I’ll pick up what I see.”
    “Not the best bits. Or I’ll tell my da’.”
    Other voices: “Me, too! I’ll tell mine!”
    Saaski: “Do it, then. And I’ll tell mine.”
    A thoughtful silence, during which, Old Bess felt sure, a vision of brawny Yanno appeared in every mind. That line of torment was abandoned.
    A girl’s high piping: “How come your hair’s like that?”
    Saaski, stonily: “Like what?”
    “Like that. It’s funny. Like a haystack.” Some titters, a few shushings. “Your eyes are funny, too. They’re strange.”
    “She’s eldritch.” “A