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I untangle my arms from between us and gently push him far enough away to see his face. The fingers of ténesomni strain in but do not touch us.

“And what about this?” I ask, motioning at the darkness and where it ends. “Why do you pretend you don’t see it?”

His mouth tenses, but his eyes don’t leave mine. His answer comes out in a tight, pointed burst. “You think this makes you special, but it means nothing.”

I pull away and shake my head, eyes narrowing. “You still won’t tell me, will you?”

“Tell you what?”

“About her.”

Father’s hands drop to his sides. “What are you talking about?”

I study his face, noting the angle and pinch of his eyebrows. He’s afraid.

“Your wife. Mymother.”

Hardness chases away his apprehension. “She has nothing to do with any of this.”

“Except withme.” I beat my chest. “Her daughter. And the peculiar gift she and I both possess. Or didn’t you notice?”

My father grabs my shoulders and thrusts his face within inches of mine. His eyes are wild, desperate. “Your love of light will get you killed. Is that what you want?”

Shivers run up my spine. “Like her?”

Great tremors assail his arms. A wrenching sob shatters him, and his head sags between us.

Shame drenches me from head to toe. I know he is not strong enough for this right now. A confrontation is the last thing he needs. Why can’t I hold my tongue, go on with life, and ignore the troubles that threaten to close in?

I sigh and lay a cool hand on his flushed cheek. “No one will care about my collection of bolétis, Pada.”

For a moment, we stand like that, and I begin to hope something has been mended between us. But he brushes my hand away from his face and stands to his full height. If I hadn’t just witnessed his grief, I would not know it could have ever existed. His eyes are cold, his jaw set. “If you are intent on ruining yourself, I want no part of it.”

Pushing past me so I struggle for balance, he storms toward the cabin and barricades himself inside.

I stand there a moment; I stand there forever. The rhythm of my heart slows, my breaths calm, but the turmoil within my soul refuses to be stilled. A soft wind cuts through the clearing and lifts the hair off my damp brow, bids me to awaken.? Scooping up the necklace and brushing it off, I rise and tie the straps so it rests in the little hollow between my collar bones. It shines clearer than ever.

If he refuses to help me, I will have to help myself.

This time I remember to carry the brightest lantern possible. I hope it will keep the valefolk from noticing the impenetrable sphere around me. With how thick the darkness is and how useless ignati has proved against it over the last two weeks, entering the city is a risk. But it’s one I feel compelled to take.

I don’t know what I will find in Utsanek. More than I can expect at home, I hope.

What I didn’t anticipate was an entire square filled with angry people.

Distinguishing any words amid the passionate shouts and cries polluting the air is difficult, but from the far end of the gathering, a stronger voice carries above the rest. Every time it pauses, the valefolk yell even louder, more enraged with each passing moment. I am not close enough to catch any of what the speaker says. The crowd presses in so tightly that I cannot penetrate the heart of the square to see what’s going on.

Frustrated, I make my way around the edge of the throng, sometimes having to scrape my back against the stone-clad buildings and hold the lantern above my head so it won’t be smashed. I am surprised anyone can keep theirs alight with the way people jostle about. They must carry them out of habit, not necessity. The flames really don’t do anything anymore.

I almost make it to the northeast corner when an explosion of pain and light knocks me against a wall. A warm, sticky liquid dribbles over my lips and chin. I sputter and gasp for breath. By some miracle, my lantern is intact, but I fear my nose may not be. I slump down and curve myself around the ignati while attempting to stymie the flow of blood.

“Are you alright?”

A concerned voice edges through the cacophony. Startled, I peer up to find its source.

Heat rushes into my cheeks. The young man from the marketplace, the one with the thoughtful eyes and the nose ring, stands over me again. This time, he looks surprised to see me. Or relieved, which is a bewildering thought. How is it possible that, out of all the people in the Vale, I have come upon this same young man in a multitude—twice?

He crouches to one knee and digs in a pocket of his trousers, offering me the cloth he unearths. I hesitate before accepting. Inspecting his face, I find only a disarming kindness.