Wren yanked the needle through the stubborn cloth of her daycloak, her eyes boring holes into the floor. The peace she'd gotten after coming home hadn't lasted long, and the woman was already making her want to scream. It wasn't a surprise, really, that she'd found Wren another suitor already. That didn't make thinking about it sting any less.

"Won't you think about it, just for a moment?"

Wren shifted her gaze on the fabric and refused to look at her mother across the tent. She knew what she would see already. Dark eyes, judging her every movement, eyebrows curved in a question while her mother's arms crossed her chest and her foot tapped on the floor. But there was no thinking about this, because she'd already given her answer.

"Wren."

"I already said no, Mother."

Wren's eyes flickered upwards for just a moment, meeting her mother's frosty glare. She turned them back down again and pretended to inspect her stitchwork. She wished her mother had gotten the message with the last suitor. He'd tried to claim her in public, in front of everyone. It had taken all her restraint not to punch him. She'd giggled with glee--privately, of course--when his parents had left with him at their last caravan stop.

Not that he had been awful. He'd treated her well enough that sometimes she almost had fun hanging around him. But still, his hand on hers made her skin prickle and sparked an urge to run. The memory ran a cold feeling down her back.

"Do you realize that eventually people will stop asking you? Especially when they see you running around with another boy." Her mother folded her arms. "Look at me when I'm speaking to you."

Wren's face got hot. She thought maybe they would have given up mentioning Armand, by now, since she'd been careful to only spend time with him where they couldn't see her doing it. But of course they'd know about it anyway.

She glanced up again, mouth creasing purposely into a frown, while her eyes flickered around, searching for her father. His grey eyes avoided hers as he dug through the crate that served as her parents' writing desk. He was looking for something or other that belonged at the market. Which is where Wren wished they still were, but her mother seemed to think bothering her was a better use of their time. 

"Leave the girl be, Meria," he said, without looking up.

"We keep having this conversation, Maron, and it's going nowhere. I am tired of it. Talk some sense into your daughter if you want to help."

Wrene would have given anything to get up and walk right out of the tent, but that would just mean more shouting later, when it was harder to get away from. Her father continued digging through the crate, but didn't look up. 

"She's nervous. Same as you were."

"She'll get over it, everyone does. You did. I did." Her mother didn't seem to notice that Wren was even in the room anymore. Wren wondered if her mother realized she wasn't her.

Her father retrieved a roll of leather bindings from the inside of the box and set it down on top of the crate that served as his writing desk. "Then you understand why she's like this. Give the poor girl some space."

"I'm sitting right here, you know," Wren replied, voice a little louder than was necessary. The thread snapped when she pulled it through the fabric of her cloak, stabbing her in the thumb. She swore under her breath. Her mother stood, and Wren's stomach flipped.

The room filled with tension. Wren took her eyes off her work. Her parents made knowing glances at one another, a silent conversation she wasn't meant to hear. It made her steam. Her father looked back down into his crate of things and shrugged his shoulders.

"Fine then." Wren's mother's voice broke the spell of awkward silence binding them. "Maron, we need to go back to the market soon. And you." She looked over at Wren, gaze still frosty, then turned away and folded up the parchment she'd been reading. "Don't think this conversation is done."

Wren didn't deign to answer as her parents shuffled through their tent, kicking up motes of dust as they readied their things. The market would be an all-day affair, lasting until the sun set and the crews began to pack up their belongings. The whole caravan would be on the move soon, and the last few days before a move were always the busiest. Wren thanked the stars it would keep them busy enough that she could do what she wanted.

She watched as their backs retreated out of the tent flap, then released her breath as if she expected the sound to summon them back. Wren waited a few moments before she moved, peeking out between the cracks in the canvas to make sure they were really gone. The tension left her shoulders once she was sure they were.

"Hey."

Wren flinched, her head whipping around to where the voice had come from, but it was just Armand, standing next to the opening where he couldn't easily be seen. Her eyes widened in alarm as she grabbed his collar and yanked him inside.

"What are you doing here?" She gave him a serious look, but his dark eyes remained unconcerned. He slipped away from her and began rooting through one of their boxes until he came back a moment later with a lumpy piece of cheese.

"You never showed up," he said with a shrug, as if it were supposed to be some kind of excuse. She smothered the momentary urge to strangle him. She'd told him a million times not to come sneaking around her parents' tents. It only ever led to more trouble for her. He eyed her impassively as he took a bite.

"I was a little bit busy, and also that's not yours," she said, folding her arms while trying not to smirk. She would have escaped hours sooner if it weren't for her mother, but if Armand knew that it would only encourage him.

"Busy with what, needlework? You're never actually busy," Armand replied, leaning heavily against the crate they pretended was a table. She felt the flush crawling into her cheeks, but his smile was all charm. She sighed heavily as the will to be annoyed with him drained out of her like it always did.

"Someone fledged, on the edge of the caravan. They carried him through the marketplace. I couldn't exactly disappear," she said, leaning against one of the support poles for the tent. 

Armand straightened a bit, eyebrows furrowing in contemplation. "Why'd they do that instead of taking him around?"

"I don't know, ask your brother," Wren said. 

Armand pondered this for a minute, then grinned, the kind of smile that made Wren's stomach drop because it meant they were about to do something stupid.

"Whatever you're thinking of, we shouldn't do it." 

"I know where they probably brought him," Armand answered, leaning easily on the edge of the crate, daring her to tell him no. "We could go there and check it out."

"What? No!" Wren glanced out the tent flap to ensure her parents hadn't magically reappeared. Or worse yet, Armand's brother. She remembered when they'd first met and he'd found them hiding out behind one of the guard tents. Wren was not yet aware that the guard was no place for a teenage girl. He'd shooed Wren off despite Armand's protests. Armand's face had reddened like the sky at sunset, fire on his dark skin, and Wren had taken off too quickly to see the outcome. She didn't need a repeat now, especially not over something so stupid.

Armand laughed. "Relax, they just took him to the healers. We won't get in trouble for poking around there. Just pretend you have a headache or something."

Wren sighed through her nose. Lying about a headache was a transparent excuse to see the healers if she'd ever heard one. 

"I know you want to," he said, eyebrows raising, the words hanging in the air like a taunt. She didn't want to be here when her parents got back, whether they expected her to be or not. It was easier to stay away, come back when they were ready to sleep and there wasn't time for talking.

"Fine," she huffed. "But if we get in trouble again I'm blaming it on you."

Armand nodded, then walked out without waiting to see if she would follow. Wren gave another quick glance out the tent flaps before scurrying out into the tent rows, eyes darting around as if she expected her parents to reappear at any moment. 

The heat settled into her clothes as she left the shaded protection of the tent. It was foolish to be outside at such an hour, when the sun was the highest and the heat the strongest, but then again, so was their errand. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She wiped it away with a willowy hand and ducked under the shade of another row of wagons.

Armand kept his easy pace next to her, hands in his pockets, like he couldn't be bothered with the sun. Her parents could chastise her all they wanted, but they couldn't ban her from him. In another life, their friendship might have been more acceptable, but Armand's brother's wings were more curse than blessing. They'd doomed him to a life spent as a mercenary, here or somewhere different, but it didn't really matter. The fact that they were half-brothers spared Armand that fate--even if he scarcely appeared to appreciate it--but according to her parents they were one in the same. 

"Do you think he lived? He looked pretty bad." Wren's stomach turned, thinking about it. Maybe that's why they'd brought him through the center of the caravan, he'd lost too much blood. She shuddered. Maybe that's what had happened to the merchant's daughter, and that's why no one saw her anymore.

Armand shrugged. "Sometimes they don't. We'll find out when we get there, I guess."

The sparse collection of supply crates and wagons and livestock pens disappeared as they crossed into the heart of the caravan, swallowed up by a dizzying array of tents. They pitched in every direction, made of every kind of fabric, in every configuration one could imagine. But the tents never forgot who they belonged to.

The rich merchants in the center of town, if you could call it a town, had towering tents made of silk, pitched on sturdy wooden poles in arrangements that made sense. Their banner flags flapped in the breeze, heralding to anyone that would listen how important the person inside was. Wren snorted. Her family had two rooms made of cotton, and it was all they needed, much as her parents thought otherwise.

"I wonder if he hates this place already," she said. "If he's still alive, I mean." She uncapped the canteen hanging around her neck and took a long draw from it. It tasted like sand and heat, but it made the burning in her throat go away. She handed it back to Armand, who took a swig and capped it without asking her what she meant.

"Dunno, assuming you're talking about the man, still. You never did tell me why you came here." Wren's face flushed. Her mind raced when she thought about the day she left the village. Their empty stares and angry looks or even worse, indifference. She shuddered.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You never do."

"I told you, our crops died and we ran out of money."

She sighed with relief when Armand simply shrugged, and didn't ask anymore. He'd asked enough times that he should know, by now, that he wouldn't get a good answer from her. 

"Okay." Armand sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair. "Someday I'm going to find out, Wren."

Wren stared limply at him for a few moments, then smiled like she'd just won a prize. "As soon as you tell me what is going on with your brother. He's out and you're not. Again."

Armand's face flashed anger, all creased eyebrows and darting eyes, like a fire on a bright day. But in that instant it was gone again. He looked away from her and rubbed at his elbow.

"Then we're not talking, I guess," he said. His eyes iced over and he stared into the distance, mouth set in a hard line. Wren deflated. She'd only wanted him to stop asking. She turned her gaze back into the maze of tents, toward the large patchwork one near the horizon that held sick people and their healers.

"Let's just go," she said, less grateful for the quiet than she'd expected. She let out a sigh of relief when he fell into line beside her instead of staying behind to sulk. Armand could not be more different than his brother, and she was thankful for that, at least.

She stayed away from Griffon as much as she could. He was opposite of Armand. Tall, angular, and built like a brick, with electric blue wings that cascaded down his back and did nothing to make him look less intimidating. He was eleven years older and had a face set in a permanent scowl that made her uncomfortable.

By the time they got to the medic tent, both were dripping with sweat, heaving with exhaustion, and eager to get out of the sun. A woman peeked her head around a makeshift desk as Wren pushed the thin tent fabric aside. The smell of antiseptic and blood tendriled up her nose like a snake.

"Are you looking for someone?"

"Not in particular," Armand answered before she could. Wren scanned the room. Several people lay in beds, sheets covering their faces, evidence of the last raider attack. Wren tried not to look at them, though it was harder to ignore their smell.

The only person awake and moving sat on the edge of a cot on the other end of the tent. A great pair of red wings sprouted from his shoulders. Tattered strips of bandages wound around his torso, ragged around the edges and stained pink from the blood and bits of flesh they held back from his fledging.

He picked things off the tray in front of him. A bowl of stew, a cup of water. A small container filled with a powder that would take his pain away. He picked it up as Wren drew closer. She reached her hand for his shoulder. He jumped. The container clattered to the floor, sending up a cloud of dust after it.

"I told you not to sur—" He wheeled around to face her. Wren froze when their eyes met. His clouded with confusion, eyebrows tensing.

"Wren?"

Fire rose in her throat. He reached for her for half a moment. She fell back like a startled cat. He wasn't older. He was her age. If she knew she would not have come. She would have fled until her feet left earth and left this place.

"Are you okay?" Armand's voice barely cut through her thoughts. Her fists clenched and unclenched. Her eyes stung. They'd run away to get away from him, and here he was, an unwelcome ghost of her past.

"Let's go," she said.

"Wait." The man on the gurney rose to his feet, knees shaking, face pale. "It's been three years. I can't believe you're here."

"Four," she replied, voice terse enough to cut through steel. Four years wasn't enough to forget what he'd done. It wasn't enough for her to give him the chance to ask her forgiveness. He didn't deserve it anyway.

Armand looked between them for a second, then blinked and gently touched Wren's upper arm. "Who is this guy?"

"I'm leaving." She tore away from him and left as quickly as her feet would carry her, without looking to see if either would follow. Her blood pounded in her ears. Breath caught in her chest, ragged as a storm breeze, and rushed out again with a hollow gasp. She crawled inside a supply tent, behind a box of spices that clogged her nose and made her eyes sting more. Her arms hugged her knees.

He couldn't be here. Not now. Where would she go next? The cities wouldn't take her, not without a husband. But she wouldn't be able to stay here, either. Not once everyone knew. Not once they learned about the horrible things she did and--

"Wren!"

Armand's voice floated through the thin fabric. Wren didn't move. Angry tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She wiped at them with her sleeve, but it only made more of them. It wasn't fair. None of this was fair. Another ragged gasp caught in her throat.

Armand's footsteps drew closer. He lifted the tent flap and stepped inside, his shadow falling over her as he moved beside her and sat down.

"What happened?"

"I'm fine," Wren responded. She turned away from him and wished she could disappear into the boxes. He shook his head.

"No, you're not fine." he said. "I'm not gonna force you to tell me but if you were fine, you wouldn't be crying over some guy who just showed up this morning."

Bile rose in Wren's throat. Her fingernails bit uncomfortably into her palms, and she wiped at her eyes again. He reached an arm around her shoulder, and she fought the urge to shrug it off so she could keep crying and feeling sorry for herself.

"I lied when I said our crops died and we ran out of money," she said.

He laughed, in a way that was more resignation than making fun of her. "I'm not an idiot, Wren. I know."

"No," she said, her voice wavering. "You don't."

She closed her eyes and tried not to remember. It was hot that day, and they were fifteen. The village marketplace wasn't like the one in the caravan. It was quiet. It allowed for sneaking around. It hid them when Rannok most needed it. And she was a good kid. A kid no one suspected something so terrible out of.

"You'll feel better if you talk about it."

"Stop asking," she replied. The muscles in her shoulders tensed. She could still smell the gunpowder from the fireworks she'd purchased, and he'd helped her plant. She could hear the tremendous roar as the market stall collapsed and the old man fell.

"I'm not asking, I'm just saying if you—"

"I helped him plant fireworks, okay?" Wren's voice broke on the last word, and a flood of tears came with it. "He got mad at one of the shopkeepers because he got caught throwing rocks at his camels. They made Rannok tend the gardens for a week and he thought it would be funny."

Armand blinked and withdrew his arm from around her shoulder. He picked at the cuticle on his thumb and didn't look at her.

"Oh."

"When they went off one of the boards collapsed on him and crushed his head. He died a few days later. They thought it was my idea. I got stuck on a nail trying to crawl out and he left me there."

Her stomach rose into her throat again. She'd lose her only friend because of him. It would be all his fault, again. Just like it was his fault when he ran and hid around a corner and left her for everyone to stare at.

"I wasn't trying to hurt anyone," she said, though that didn't change anything. It didn't change that they took away someone's grandfather. It didn't change that no one wanted to talk to her anymore. It didn't make the villagers treat her and her family like less of a pariah.

Armand's body uncoiled, stretched out between the boxes and the tent fabric, his eyes barely visible in the filtered light. A breeze rustled the tent fabric and stretched the silence between them.

"Why did you do it?"

Wren's shoulders sank. It stung more than she wanted it to. More than she realized it would. She leaned away from him a little.

"I stole a scarf the week before. He threatened to turn me in and I was only fifteen and I didn't want to get in trouble, I just didn't think and I tried to stop him but I didn't and it was so stupid and I'm sorry. I just couldn't. I—" She didn't know what else and collapsed into a fit of crying instead.

"I'm sorry," he said. She looked up at him. His eyes were cool, and it made the muscles in her chest relax. He wasn't angry. He didn't care. She didn't know which she preferred.

"My parents still haven't forgiven me," she said. "They act like it's okay, but it isn't."

He snorted. "Griffon's still mad because I set fire to our tent by accident when I was ten. We all do stupid things. You didn't hurt anyone on purpose."

"You don't mean that," she said. She played with her thumb some more and stared into the wall. His shoulders were tense still, and he wouldn't look at her. She swallowed hard and did not move.

"I'd be pissed too, he got you kicked out of your home."

She looked over at him and furrowed her eyebrows. His wrists flexed. His back curved into one of the boxes, shoulder tensing like he wanted to hit something. He put a hand on his arm and he stilled. Tilted his neck to the side until it cracked.

"I hope he leaves."

Armand nodded. "I do too."