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comes down.
    “Lexi!” bellows a deep voice behind me. I set the ax on the stump and begin picking up the split wood.
    “Yes, Uncle Otto?”
    “What do you think you’re doing?”
    “Chopping wood,” I say, my voice on the narrow line between matter-of-fact and rude.
    “You know to leave it. Tyler can come around and do it for you.”
    “The stack was low, and my mother needs it to bake. I’m only doing what you wanted, Uncle. Helping.” I turn and head for the wood stack. Otto follows.
    “There are other ways for you to help.”
    Otto is still wearing his Protector face; his voice stern, edged with power. It may be his face and his voice, but it’s not his title. It was my father’s first.
    “And where are your shoes?” he asks, looking down at the mud-caked boots.
    I drop the wood into the middle of the stack, and turn. “You wouldn’t want me to ruin them, would you?”
    “What I want is for you to listen to me when I tell you to do something. And more importantly, when I tell you not to do something.”
    He crosses his arms, and I resist the urge to mimic him.
    “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “Lexi, I told you I didn’t want you to go off today. Don’t try to tell me you didn’t.”
    I test out the lie a moment on my tongue, but it won’t get past Otto as easily as it did my mother.
    “You’re right, Uncle,” I say with a patient smile. One of his eyebrows peaks, as if he suspects a trap, but I go on. “I did go in search of the stranger, and look what I came back with.” I hold my hands wide. “Nothing.”
    At the stump, I lift the ax, my fingers sliding into my father’s grooves.
    “It was a foolish task,” I add. “I couldn’t find him. He’s gone.”
    The ax drives deep into the stump, sticking with a heavy thud.
    “So I came home. And here I am. Relax, Uncle. All is well.” I dust my hands off, let one come to rest on Otto’s shoulder. “So, what did Helena have to say?”
    “Not enough,” says Otto, looking down at my father’s boots. “Says she saw something, a shadow, maybe our stranger, in the clearing by her house. Claims she doesn’t know which way he went. That he just vanished.”
    “Helena’s always loved a good story,” I offer. “She can make one out of nothing.” It is a lie, of course. She prefers to have me tell the stories to her.
    Otto isn’t even listening. He’s looking over me, and his eyes are even farther away. Dark, lost eyes.
    “What happens next?” I ask.
    He blinks. “For now, we wait.”
    I manage to nod calmly before I turn away, the frown creeping across my face. I don’t trust for a minute that that’s all my uncle has in mind.

    Tonight there is no moon, and therefore no moonlight playing on the walls. Nothing to entertain those who cannot sleep. I am unbearably awake, but not because of the stranger.
    It’s the wind.
    That same sad note is back again, weaving through the air, and there’s something else, a sound that makes me shiver. No matter how I turn away or bury my face in the sheets, I keep hearing something—or someone—calling, just loud enough to pierce the walls. The voice is surely something more than wind, curling and twisting itself into highs and lows, like muffled music. I know that if only I could lean closer, words would become clear, distinct. Words that wouldn’t break apart before I can wrap my mind around them.
    I push the covers back, careful not to wake Wren, and let my feet slide to the wooden floor. Then I remember my father’s words and pull my feet back into bed, hovering awkwardly on the edge, halfway between the motion of standing and slipping back down.
    The trees all whisper, leaves gossiping. The stones are heavy think ers, the sullen silent types. He used to make up stories for everything in nature, giving it all voices, lives. If the moor wind ever sings, you mustn’t listen, not with all of your ears. Use only the edges. Listen the way you’d look out the corners of your eyes. The