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I jogged into the clearing, the place chronicling people’s faith, their dreams inscribed into the locust barks. The stained-glass leaves clapped at my arrival. A solitary wind blew, tossing my side ponytail about as I twisted around, gazing up at the canopy.

The trees shivered, as if quizzing me, as if I could hear them.

What should you do with it?

I’d snatched the final acorn from the dresser drawer when Aire hadn’t been looking, while he’d slipped into his clothes. I pulled the nut from my pocket now.

What should you do with it?

I envisioned the abandoned treehouse colony, the place where life once thrived. And the people who’d lived there. And the stories they’d left behind.

What should you do with it?

I closed my eyes and answered,Give it back.

But not to the Crown. It didn’t belong to them, just like it didn’t belong to me.

Kneeling, I dug into the dirt, creating a burrow. The kind that someone of this harvest kingdom would use to plant a seed.

I tucked the acorn inside, then swept the soil over it, returning it to this place, back to the earth. Back to this isolated, fabled forest.

I grinned. And then came something that I didn’t expect.

Sunlight splashed through the woods. I gasped, squeezing my fist and hunching over as a strange current poured through my body—what I imagined flowing blood to feel like. My skin stretched and cracked, shedding itself, scattering like leaves, my insides splintering and reattaching.

What was happening?

I cried out, over and over. The nugget in my chest swelled. Then it retracted and began to pump, the sound of a drum in my ears.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

Just as it had when I’d keeled over during the last venture here.

Just like a flesh heart.

When the pain stopped, I slumped. And I opened my eyes.

The first thing I saw was my fist closed around itself. I saw the bent digits and knuckles.

And the skin. The smooth, supple skin.

I splayed my shaky fingers, holding my palms up to my face, to the light. Tawny, with flecks of pink. Fine lines threaded into the surface. Veins and half-moon fingernails.

The hands of a girl. A real girl.

“Wow,” I whispered.

29

Fantasy

I whispered it again. Because almighty...fucking...Seasons.

I wiggled my fingers. Nine digits. One stump.

I ripped off my boots and circled my ankles. I explored each piece of myself, my hands fumbling. I gawked at the springs of hair along my arms, the cavity in my navel, my breasts like dough, my ribcage as delicate as a crate.

The cups of my knees. The cushions of my ass.