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“No, it won’t.” Zaf held up her faintly glowing hand. “You saw what my light did to the swamp. There’s enough left in me that I bet no monster’s shadows will dare come hear me again. For now, anyway. I’m feeling better than I was earlier, but I don’t know how long my light will stay.” Zaf glanced at Bartos. “And if my lightdoesgo out, I don’t think I’d like to be alone in this rotten place. It would be nice to have Barty’s sword to strike things for me, I suppose, and seeing as how we’re all going east...”

Bartos lowered his head, as if bowing to the queen herself, and held his cap once more to his heart. “We’d be honored, Zaf, if you would join us.”

Zaf’s mouth scrunched up, as if she was thinking about getting angry again, but then she turned to Thorn, and her grim face softened a little, and she held out her hand. Thorn gently took hold of it with her unhurt right hand, and as Zaf helpedher rise, a soft spark of energy zapped from Zaf’s palm to her own. Warm and sharp, it settled Thorn’s mind enough that two questions formed clearly in her whirling mind:

What would Brier do, if she knew the lightning she harvested carried people inside it? That the work she loved sent witches to their deaths?

And,Thorn thought, her stomach slowly turning over and over like a smooth stone in idle fingers,what willIdo, now that I know the truth?

.13.

The Unexpected Leaving

Far above the swamps of Estar, as her sister and her oldest friend and her beloved unicorn stepped into a swamp with a stormwitch at their side, Brier Skystone lay on her bed surrounded by tear-crusted handkerchiefs.

Downstairs, someone was pounding on the front door and yelling at her.

Well, not yelling ather. Yelling at Thorn.

But Thorn,Brier’s mind whispered in soft, sad circles,is gone.

“Thorn Skystone!” came the voice of Master Tuwain. “If you don’t get down here in the next ten seconds, you’re fired!Do you hear me?Fired.Finished! Flattened! Thunderstruck! Charred! Burned! Left to crisp and wither away!”

Brier could not abide the note of glee in Master Tuwain’s voice. Not to mention the unsettling fact that each of his knocks jolted her body with agony.

It was why she’d been lying in the dark, barely moving, for three days.

Everything hurt. Sounds hurt. Even the faintest light reminded Brier of the bolt that had struck her.

Three days ago, she’d shoved through a crowd and shouted for Thorn over the Fall of the Sky’s roar.

Now the mere thought of doing that made her teeth hurt.

She was getting worse—and fast.

She climbed out of bed. The soft blue rug scratched painfully against the tender soles of her feet.

Mazby, bleary-eyed, poked his head out of the pocket of Thorn’s sleep-shirt. He’d retreated there three days ago and had only surfaced to listlessly hunt beetles on the windowsill.

“You’ll hurt your burn,” he warned her.

“Don’t care,” Brier muttered. Tears stung her eyes as she buttoned Thorn’s shirt closed.

For one, the fabric scraped her burn.

For two, the shirt smelled like Thorn—paint and Mazby’s feathers and rain from her long hours cleaning the streets.

Brier hobbled downstairs. When she grabbed her sister’s patchwork cap and coat, her sensitive fingers felt like they’d been pricked by sharp stickers. She took a deep breath (that hurt too), waited for Mazby to land on her shoulder (that also hurt), and opened the door.

Master Tuwain glowered down at her, then narrowed his eyes, furrowed his brows, and looked closer.

“You look terrible,” he declared. “Are you ill?” He pulled his collar up over his nose and mouth. “Great storms. I knew I should’ve fired you by mail.”

“I’m not ill,” Brier snapped, “and if you don’t stop yelling at me, I’ll—”

Mazby chirped a warning.

Master Tuwain’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.