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“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“It is extremely relevant,” I said with more conviction than I could explain. Gods, I’d forgotten how stubborn we both could be.

I reached out to touch his arm. “Trust me.”

He released a quiet exhale. “I do trust you,” he said. “Although the last time someone asked for my trust, I got a snowball in the face.”

He said it so deadpan that I blinked. “Megari?”

“Who else?”

I laughed, picturing his sister washing away one of his stern moods with a well-aimed snowball. Megari and I were of the same ilk, wise but depraved souls. “No wonder we’re your favorite people.”

“So you are,” he replied with a grin, “though my sister often makes me regret it.”

“I won’t,” I swore. “I’ve no snowballs up my sleeve. Only…”

“Paper birds?”

I smiled. “Only paper birds.”

My hand was still on his arm, and Takkan took it, interlacing my fingers with his own. In that simple gesture, we were reconciled. And though the silence between us grew, I found strength in the words we left unspoken.

* * *

Gen looked much better the next day. He sauntered alongside Takkan and me, the wind mussing his curls, a touch of sunburn on his cheeks. If he had any inkling that I was up to something, he said nothing. Which worried me. I’d grown used to his incessant chatter.

“Shiori!” Hasho shouted as we approached the Sacred Lake. “Did all those cookies at breakfast turn your legs into jelly? We’ve been waiting for you!”

My brothers were assembled in a line. On each of their faces was a variation of the same proud grin, and when I drew close, they parted to reveal their creation.

“Behold,” declared Yotan, gesturing behind him. “It’s finished!”

It was a flying basket!

Mostly round and shaped like a large fishing creel, it looked far sturdier than the old basket we’d flown to Mount Rayuna: its sides were constructed of a simple weave of thin bamboo strips, while the base was reinforced with cedar planks.

“It’s beautiful,” I breathed. “Looks tough, too.”

“You haven’t seen the best part yet,” said Yotan. “Gen!”

Right on cue, the young sorcerer shouted, “Fly!”

Six richly woven ropes jetted up from inside the basket, their ends rising into the sky and bending with the wind.

I clapped, marveling. So that was what Qinnia had done with all those silk robes. “It’s a kite!”

Gen smirked. “Reminds me of Solzaya’s octopus.”

I saw the resemblance, now that he mentioned it, and it made me laugh.

“We figured there was no Summer Festival this year,” said Hasho, “and it is tradition for us to make a kite together. We’ve waited for you to make the last knot.” He passed me a silken rope. The seventh and last to be tethered to the basket.

The request was a nod to my name, which literally meant “knot.” My mother had named me thus, knowing I was her seventh and last child, the one who would bring my brothers together no matter how fate pulled us apart.

I ran my hands along the rope’s woven red cloth, recognizing my old winter robes. A pair of embroidered crane eyes peeked at me from the silk, which made me smile as I tied the last knot to the basket. Then, after a breath, I let go.

As if it had wings, the seventh rope flew up to join the others. I knew it was Gen’s magic that carried them, but the sight still filled me with awe. I lifted my arms to the sky, mimicking the ropes and reaching as high as I could.