When Makarria came in for lunch after finishing her morning chores, Parmo was still asleep. Makarria joined her parents at the small dining table beside the iron cooking stove in the center of their home and eyed his empty stool.

"Why's Grampy so tired today?"

Her parents exchanged a glance but said nothing. Prisca filled Makarria's wooden bowl with crab and leek soup from the pot boiling on the stove and handed it to her wordlessly. Galen kept his eyes focused on his own soup. They had been acting like this all morning, as if Makarria had done something wrong, and they were angry with her. As far as Makarria knew, though, she hadn't done anything wrong. Although tired and lethargic, she had gotten up in time to milk the goats before sunup, she'd pulled weeds in the garden and harvested the leeks for their soup, she'd fed the chickens and checked for eggs, and she'd done it all without a complaint or daydreaming.

"I think I'll go wake Grampy," Makarria suggested, wanting nothing more than his warm presence there with her right now.

"Let him be," Prisca said. "He was up late last night. We all were but you."

"But his soup will get cold."

"Makarria, I said let him be."

Galen frowned. "It is nearly noon. The old man should be up by now, having stayed up all night or not."

Makarria had no idea why her grandfather or the rest of them should have been up all night, but her eyes lit up at the prospect of waking him nonetheless. "Can I, Mother?"

"Fine," Prisca relented. "You can ask him but don't badger him into getting up if he's still tired."

Makarria dashed up from the table and threw aside the curtains separating Parmo's sleeping area from the rest of the room. "Grampy," she said, shaking his shoulders. But he did not stir, and his face was covered with sweat. His breaths came in rapid, shallow rasps. "Grampy?" she said again, and this time a thin moan escaped his lips. "Mother," Makarria started to say, but Prisca had heard the worry in Makarria's voice from across the room and was already at her side.

"Father," Prisca said sharply. She flung the sleeping furs off of him and saw that his nightclothes were soaked with sweat. "Go draw up a hot draught with worm root and anise like I taught you," she told Makarria. "Quickly, go! Galen, fetch water and a washrag."

Galen had been coming to see what the fuss was about but now turned and rushed outside to fetch the water and rag while Makarria ran to the stove to pile on more wood and stoke the flames. Galen returned a moment later with a pail of water and filled the kettle atop the stove before hurrying into Parmo's sleeping area with the remaining water and the washrag.

Once the flames were going strong in the stove and the water in the kettle heating, Makarria hopped onto one of the dining stools to reach the drying rack hanging from the roof. There were dozens of the little muslin sacks on the rack with a wide assortment of herbs, roots, dried berries, and fruits within them. All of them were similar-looking, but Makarria knew how to identify each one by smell; in a quick few moments she was back on the ground, crumbling with her fingers one pinch each of worm root and anise root into her grandfather's large bronze stein. The water in the kettle was not yet boiling though, and Makarria saw that her father had nearly filled it to the top. She dumped half of it out into the pot of crab and leek soup so that the water in the kettle would heat faster; the soup would be thin and tasteless now, but that was the least of her concerns. She could see that her parents had stripped Parmo of his nightshirt and were wiping him down with the damp washcloth. Galen lifted Parmo's head and torso so that Prisca could wipe his back, but it sent the old man into a fit of coughing.

"The draught, Makarria!" her mother yelled.

"Coming," Makarria said, checking the kettle. The water level was so low now she couldn't see if it was boiling or not. Without thinking, she stuck her finger inside to test the water and withdrew it with a sudden yelp, nearly knocking the kettle from the stove in the process. "Mẽrda!" she silently swore, echoing her grandfather's favorite curse and sticking the pulsating finger into her mouth. Think before you act, you daft girl. She grabbed up the kettle handle with her other hand and filled the stein with steaming hot water. The pungent smell of anise filled her nostrils. She grabbed a dried honey-bead from one of the muslin sacks and tossed it in the stein where it instantly melted.

"Makarria!" Prisca yelled again.

"Here," Makarria said, rushing to her parents' side and handing off the stein to her mother.

Galen still held Parmo up in a sitting position from behind and now grabbed the old man's jaw with one hand to lean his head back and hold it steady. Prisca moved the stein to Parmo's lips and tilted it, forcing him to drink. Parmo sputtered at first on the hot liquid but then began swallowing as Prisca continued to pour it into his gullet. Most of the draught spilled down his chin and onto his bare chest but enough went down, and when Prisca pulled the empty stein away and wiped Parmo clean with the washcloth, his breathing seemed to slow and become more regular.

"Is he going to be alright?" Makarria asked, wedging herself forward between her parents to see if Parmo was opening his eyes.

"Get back!" Prisca yelled.

"I want to help."

"You've done enough, Makarria. He's sick because of you."

Makarria was dumbstruck and she staggered back. Her fault? What had she done?

"Just go," her mother said, regretting what she had said but still terse. "Outside and let us tend to him."

"It's alright. Go on, Makarria," her father said, and Makarria turned and fled outside.

~~~~

The sun had burned through the cloud cover low in the sky to the west, and the blustering winds of midday had subsided into a gentle breeze. Makarria was laying on one of the large rocks that comprised the little jetty she and her grandfather had built to shelter their skiff from the relentless ocean surf. She was just lying there and letting the waves wash over her outstretched hand to soothe her burned finger. From the corner of her eye she saw her father walk down from the house, but she ignored him, even when he sat on a rock beside her.

"Makarria," he said, but he didn't know where to start. He had convinced Prisca the night before to not yet tell Makarria about her ability. There was still a chance she might grow out of it, and he was certain Parmo had overstated the danger of the Emperor. They were hundreds of miles away from Col Sargoth and Makarria was just a girl after all. What danger did she pose to the mightiest man in the Five Kingdoms, even if she could turn tunics to gowns? Isolated as they were here on the peninsula, she wasn't a danger to anyone but her own family. Galen couldn't bring himself to tell her that though. She was still his little girl, and he wanted her to enjoy the innocence of her childhood while she could.

"Your mother didn't mean to yell at you," he finally said. "It's not your fault that Grampy is sick."

"Is he alright?" Makarria asked.

"I don't know, Makarria. He hasn't woken up yet. Your grandfather is getting very old, you know? There's a chance, he..."

"No, he's not going to die," Makarria insisted. "He's not too old."

"I hope you're right. I really do. Do you want to come and see him?"

Makarria nodded wordlessly and got up to follow her father up to the house. Inside, they found Prisca at Parmo's bedside. Parmo lay bundled beneath his sleeping furs, his breaths shallow but smooth and steady at least. The sleeping area smelled of dried sweat and anise.

"Prisca," Galen said. "Why don't we go get some rest now."

"No, I'm fine," Prisca said, but Makarria could see that her mother was weary. Galen was too. Between tending to Grampy and whatever had kept them up all night, they were visibly exhausted.

"It's alright," Makarria assured them. "I'll stay with him. I'll get you if he wakes up, or starts coughing, or..."

"Come," Galen said, grabbing Prisca's arm to help her to her feet. Prisca seemed about to protest, but she finally stood, kissed her fingertips and touched them to Makarria's forehead, then let Galen lead her to bed.

Makarria returned her attention to her grandfather. Though his face was relaxed, it seemed to be creased with more wrinkles than she had noticed before. And his skin sagged loosely from his cheeks and chin. Maybe her father was right. No, she insisted. Grampy's not going to die. She refused to believe it and instead focused her thoughts on the wonderful things the two of them would do together when he was better. The sails on the skiff needed patching, for one thing, but they would need to get more sailcloth first. Maybe Parmo could sail her to Pyrvino to buy it. He had always promised he would take her there, and her father said he would allow it once she was old enough. She'd had her first moonblood now—how much older could her father expect her to be? Yes, she decided, Grampy and I will sail to Pyrvino. We'll get new sailcloth. We'll stay at an inn. I've never even seen an inn. And when we get back, we'll mend the sail and make new traps. I'll finally let Grampy show me how to tack the skiff, or beat the windward, or whatever he called it. Maybe we can explore Spearpoint Rock. And the ideas came, one after another—all the wonderful things she and Grampy would do.

It became dark as she sat there at her grandfather's side and the time passed when they would normally eat dinner, but her parents did not stir from their slumber, and Makarria did not want to disturb them even if she was hungry. She could go one night without supper, and she meant to stay at her grandfather's side all night or until he woke. As if her thinking the idea somehow prodded him, Parmo stirred beside her and let out a low groan.

"Grampy?" Makarria whispered, grabbing his hand. "Are you alright?"

"Makarria?" His voice was a thin rasp, barely audible. He tried to sit up but grimaced in pain and fell back into his pillow.

"I'll go wake Mother," Makarria said, but Parmo reached out and grabbed her by the wrist.

"No. Don't bother her. Help me up, Makarria. I need to go outside."

There was urgency in his voice, and Makarria obeyed without question. She reached beneath his shoulders and helped him up and onto his feet. He leaned heavily into her as she guided him through the dark living area and to the door. He had to brace himself against the wall while she pulled open the door. When they were outside, the fresh ocean air seemed to invigorate him, and he stood on his own power, only taking her hand for support.

"To the beach," he said. "I want to be near the ocean."

They walked together down the hill, along the path through the grass to the pebbled beach, and there Parmo's strength left him. His legs went limp and it was all Makarria could do to break his fall as she toppled down next to him with a thump. Parmo's breaths again came in ragged spurts, and he could only open his eyes with great effort.

"Grampy?" Makarria asked. She wanted to run. To get her mother. To make another draught. To do something.

"Stay with me," Parmo said, holding onto her hand with what little strength he had left. "It's alright. Don't be scared."

"But, Grampy—"

"I know, I know." He closed his eyes and forced himself to calm his breathing before reopening them. "My time has come, Makarria. I was born of Tel Mathir, and now She wants me back. It's part of the great cycle. You needn't be sad."

Makarria shook her head. "I don't want you to die, Grampy. You can't. I won't let you."

"That's enough, Makarria," he said, though it was getting harder for him to breathe. "Listen to me. Your parents love you. But they don't understand the danger. You're special, Makarria. People will fear you. The—" A wracking cough tore through him and his entire body shuddered.

Makarria grabbed onto him and held tight, not knowing what else to do. "Grampy?"

"Go," was all Parmo could wheeze, too weak to push her away. "Go," he tried telling her again, but it only came out in an inaudible whisper, and he lost consciousness.

Makarria held onto him, saying his name over and over again as his rasping breaths slowed. She looked at his face and through her tear-filled eyes saw not his withered features but what she imagined his visage to be when he was still young and full of life, when he lived in Sol Valaróz and sailed the Sol Sea in a mighty carrack. His body went limp and his breath become nothing more than a sigh, but still Makarria grasped onto him and held that image in her mind.