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How to explain this to Russell, who managed to interpret every tale of warning as fiction?

“Do you remember the stories at school about Mr. Milner?”

Russell grimaced. “Of course. What a letdown. All that buildup to an exciting escape, and they just hanged him.”

His words sounded callous, and Grace winced. “That’s not just a story, Russell. Not just a letdown. The teacher got most of the details wrong, but Mr. Milner really was hanged. Hediedbecause he was the Rogue.”

“Well,” Russell said, “not really.”

Grace placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from flat-out stating, still not at a whisper, that there was more than one person playing the Rogue.

“Yes, really, Russell. Whoever is running around as the Rogue now will meet the same end when the sheriff catches him. Only, this time, we will have to watch.”

“Not if we do something,” Russell said. “That’s what I don’t get, Grace. Mom and Dad and you… You keep arguing about the Rogue and what’s happening. You’re all so angry and sad, like the people in the stories at school. But the real stories are better. Mom and Dad were brave.” He brought one arm up by his ear, elbow back, like he was pulling on the string of a bow, and released an imaginary arrow. “They were amazing.”

“The story still ends the same way, Russell.”

Russell shook his head, hand dropping quickly to catch the basket slipping from his grip. “Only because everyone gave up.”

Grace stared at her brother, mouth open, searching for something to say.

But his words struck her.

It was an oversimplification—she’d experienced too often how best intentions and tenacity weren’t always enough to get you everything you wanted. Life didn’t dole out success like a merchant waiting for the price to be paid. Sometimes it came unexpectedly. Sometimes you gave everything you had and it wasn’t enough.

And yet, there was a success, a happiness, in trying. Sitting and doing nothing, though a refusal to capitulate to the mayor, didn’t feel like trying. It felt like giving up.

Grace brushed away the thought. It was too risky. She couldn’t give her immature brother the impression that she wanted him to start fighting back. If she got him killed, she’d never forgive herself.

She reached out and tousled Russell’s chestnut hair, knowing it would annoy him. “Come on, Russ. Leave the stories for a day we aren’t so busy. Milo needs a rag.”

“Graaaace,” Russell said, and danced out of her reach.

“Go on now,” she said tenderly.

He frowned. “I’m not dumb, you know. I know you just don’t want to talk about this anymore.” He turned around and headed off without waiting for a reply.

She watched him go until she saw Garrick, on patrol out by the now- clear Tucker field, staring her way.

Grace blushed, an odd tingle stirring in her stomach, thinking of how she’d run into his chest the day before. Quickly, she turned away and headed toward Willa.

As she walked, a small flutter caught her eye. She looked up in time to see a sickly grey butterfly weakly flapping as it drifted to the ground near stalks of wheat.

A sense of foreboding overtaking her, Grace crouched down to look at it. Odd dusty grey globules coated its wings and thin grey vines spiraled about its thorax. The poor insect twitched in pain.

Instantly, Grace knew what she was seeing. This was the butterfly that had landed on the gold-warped frond on Willa’s porch. The globules, the vines… so like the crater in the fortress. But the metal was grey. Gold didn’t tarnish. And yet, what else could it be?

The only known instances of animals, including humans, coming in contact with gold involved the crater, a mass of gold so large its liquified state could swallow creatures whole. Unless there was some other invasive mystic metal, which seemed unlikely to show up out of nowhere, the bug had to be infected by some altered, dusty version of Zerudorn gold.

A farmer passed by with heavy footsteps that jostled the dirt and the light-weight creature. Grace’s heart sped with panic, but the grey substance didn’t liquify, didn’t even ripple. Slowly her pulse normalized.

What was it she was seeing?

Grace stood, snapped a couple stalks of wheat, and used them to scoop up the now still butterfly. The grey didn’t spread to the wheat.

She brought the insect to her manor, where she found her parents taking a lunch break. She caught the tail end of an anxious discussion about the delays they’d had in the harvest—her mother had missed a day and a half going to the market, father had spent some hours talking with James, the Leroux family missed most of a day because of the destruction of their home, and there was a lot of distress caused by the increase in taxes. Grace knew that she had not been as fast as she could have been if she’d been getting full sleep.

Seeing Grace, her parents silenced. It wasn’t time to explore the frustration of not being included. Grace showed them the butterfly.