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Lyrik had brought me blankets in a crisscross pattern, like the material the fox mavens had worn. I’d also bullied him into carting stones to my room, and he’d bullied me not to request any fucking thing else.

Yeah. We spoke the same language.

He’d left to escort Aire and Nicu to a treehouse with adjoining rooms. Punk had fluttered behind them, casting me a glance. Overjoyed that she hadn’t ended up in the clutches of a castle watch hawk, or in the stomach of a fox, I waved her off. She’d had a long trip and grown antsy to choose a birdhouse for herself; I’d see her in the morning.

I’d unstrapped the acorn from my garter and hid it in a drawer, then freshened up. Baths were out of the question, nor did my woodskin need them. It didn’t get rank that quickly and drying took forever.

Instead, I’d arranged the stones in the hearth until they’d gotten toasty enough to rejuvenate me, but not scalding enough to burn the place, or myself, to cinders. After using a shovel to place them on the floor and cover with cloths, I reclined on the makeshift bed of hot stones, loosening the kinks.

Shortly after supper, Aire had collected my supplies—everything except my weapons—from the horse and given them back to me. I used a file that I’d packed to polish my soles and wrists, then changed into a nightdress from my satchel. I’d tried resting to the tune of earthly noises from outdoors, but my mind had been cranking like a wheel—from Mother, to Punk’s return, to the world outside my door.

I clanked out of bed and swirled my hair into a messy bun. Strapping on my boots and draping a checkered blanket around my shoulders, I left the house. A bridge near my doorstep connected to another walkway, so that’s where I headed.

Throughout the colony, liquid flames brimmed inside box lanterns, offering an unnatural but peaceful light. Probably Lyrik’s handiwork.

The intersection of two bridges formed another terrace, where a pair of swings dangled from the boughs. I scooted onto one of the seats and rocked, the ropes grunting and the hem of my nightdress lapping at the floor boards.

A solitary owl hooted, a stuttering trumpet of sound. Nocturnal creatures crooned and chirred.

My toes pressed into the ground. I used them to shove harder, increasing momentum, increasing height. The distance from the terrace and my feet grew as I moved back and forth. The swing swooped, and my stomach swooped, and my knees swooped.

Gusts of air rushed at me, over me, beside me, through me.

The sensations whisked through my insides. As the soot of night enveloped me, I threw back my head, leaning far enough for my bun to unravel and the tips of my hair to brush the ground. The blanket flopped off my shoulders.

I thought of being a child again, a little frame of woodskin learning how to use my parts, how to function. How to run and leap, until I could do it like any other child in town. Until I could do it without them staring or muttering behind their hands. Until the movements didn’t look deformed.

Until my confidence eclipsed theirs. Until they followed me.

As a tyke, I should have asked Mother build me a swing like this. She would have done it. She would have constructed the perfect model, making me the envy of my neighbors. I would have tooted my horn and flaunted it. I would have made boys and girls line up, only approving a select few to enjoy it.

If Punk were here, she’d flit around me, and we’d giggle together. We’d fly together.

I jerked upright, cresting over Autumn. Then I slowed, easing into a calmer pace, bringing myself down to earth.

As I reared backward, the swing came to a fluid stop. I yelped, hovering mid-air, as if life had paused. Maybe it had.

Maybe I wasn’t alone.

I knew I wasn’t.

Masculine warmth loomed behind me, a steady heartbeat tapping between my shoulder blades. His hands gripped the rope, his pinkie resting atop my thumb. He held the swing, and the swing held me, both suspended against his body.

His breath teased my ear. “You are frightening the owl.”

I shuddered, almost leaning into that wisp of air. Ahead of me, the owl gawked, its platter eyes reflecting agitation, probably from the voracious creaks of the swing. I must have broken a treehouse ordinance and reached a crescendo of public disturbance.

I licked my lips and called to the bird, “I’ll tone it down.”

The swing released. I bumped my toes into the boards, curbing the motion, then quitting altogether.

Aire rounded the seat, giving me a wide berth. Golden locks skimmed his forehead. Starlight sprawled across his form, highlighting and shadowing the contours, making him seem even further away.

Or he merely stood at a certain angle. No need to drone about it.

I glanced at him fully and suddenly couldn’t speak. Heat pooled in my cheeks. He’d seen me swinging like a dopey toddler.

But that wasn’t what rendered me stupid. It was his bare chest.