The void of sleep is deep and black, and heavy as granite. Peony falls in as soon as she lies down, and does not dream. When she wakes again, late in the afternoon, it takes her a few moments before she remembers where she is, what happened, and why the light is not where it should be.

Orchid blinks at her owlishly. Their mother’s content humming drifts in from the outside through an open window. There is some pottage left on the stove, from when a neighbor came. But the woman herself is long gone to her own home, and the food has cooled.

‘I don’t like sleeping during the day,’ Orchid says. ‘My head hurts.’

‘I know,’ Peony mumbles, crawling off the bed. ‘But we should get up. Work.’

She dislikes intensely this shift in time, this need to do now, at this late hour, the chores that belong to the morning. She remembers dimly that after the interrogation she did dress and go out to milk their one cow, and to feed the animals. But the lack of sleep made it all murky, then, and she moved her limbs as if in a dream — doing what she needed, but with no thought in it. All her ability to think had been wasted on the interrogation, and its endless repetition of the same. We did not take the Princess, she had said over and over again. We did not harm the Princess. We would never do such a thing. We are loyal to the crown. Peony wonders now if the guards were able to tell the difference. She would never hurt the Princess, that was true. But loyalty to the crown was only a word — meaningless, as far as she knew, anywhere outside the capital.

The rebellions were far enough in the past that even their mother would not recall much, if she were capable. Most of the time, it was easy to forget any such things had ever been. The land was long healed of any ravages, and the people have moved on. Peony grew up not thinking about it much. The stories the elders told were just that — stories, shadows of a time that had once been. She did not think it held any relevance, any relation to her present. She did not think it mattered.

She learned better in that small room in the tavern, where they were shut in with the guards. Plum had whispered to her to be quiet, but for once Peony had not needed that reminder. The armed men staring at them terrified her enough that it was hard to speak even when she was told to. She was very glad then that Iris had remained behind.

It was not a proper interrogation, really. Nobody asked for their story. It was simply a barrage of accusations — of stealing, of trickery and treachery, all stated as fact, as if trying to provoke a heated denial. But the sight of those swords froze any heat before it had the chance to surface.

Magnolia spoke for them — stammering, twisting her fingers incessantly, but she spoke first, and Peony was deeply grateful. The rest of them had to only repeat after Magnolia, and that made it easier. We did not take the Princess, Peony intoned along with the others. We did not harm the Princess. Never would we do such a thing.

It did not take that long in truth, but it felt like hours, with time trickling slow as honey in the airless heat of that room. The window had been shut tight — as if they would get far if they tried to escape through it. Sleepiness came over Peony in waves, making it hard to follow Magnolia’s voice at times, but she struggled on and repeated it all, over and over, in response to every accusation. We did not harm the Princess. We would never do such a thing. Loyal to the crown. Did not. Would never. After a while, she started to forget which of these words were true, and which only what was expected of her. Maybe that was the point.

Peony stares at her own walls, at her sister looking around in confusion, searching for her discarded clothes. It is all over now. She should let it go. Whatever the Princess said has worked. It does not matter what the guards think, as long as she sides with the girls. It will be good to have her in the capital if she is like this. She might speak for them there. It could be good for the village, good for their whole corner of the land.

But that means she will leave…

It should not matter. Peony has enjoyed making her laugh, but still the Princess is a stranger. Yet she defended them — lied for them — and when a spear was lifted against Magnolia, she paled so much…

Magnolia has trusted her from the start. Peony is more wary, behind all the talk. The Princess is only being polite and protecting the innocent, as nobles are supposed to do. It means nothing.

Still, when she goes away it will be a sad moment…

‘I wish I could go and see her,’ Orchid says, as she is folding her nightdress. The hem is torn, but not so badly that it cannot be mended. ‘To say thank you. She knows that word, right?’

There is no need for her to say who she means.

‘Well, we still might get the chance,’ Peony says. ‘She is not well enough to leave yet.’

‘They might take her anyway, though.’

Their mother waddles indoors, still humming. Both girls turn to her, but she does not look at them.

‘Well, you know how it is,’ Peony says quietly. ‘You always say it. We all do as we must. She has her obligations, as we have ours.’

‘I know.’ Orchid’s voice sounds strange. ‘Oh, don’t I know — ’

With a gulp, she crumples to the floor by the bed. Peony leaps to her.

‘What is it?’ She touches her sister’s forehead, touches her hair, searching automatically, desperately for the hurt she knows she will not find. ‘What’s wrong? It will be all right, it will… just don’t cry…’

‘I am so tired,’ Orchid sobs into her shoulder. ‘It’s been so long… so long… I can’t take it anymore… and she doesn’t even look at us. It’s as if she does not care at all. What if she doesn’t, Peony? What if she’s been gone all this time, and there is nothing to save? All these years, all the work, what if it’s all for nothing —’

This is the fear Peony knows well, but it is also one she never speaks of, as though ignoring it can make it disappear. She tries to find the right words, something supportive, as she holds Orchid closer. But nothing comes to her. After so long, she cannot deny that the risk is real.

‘We will deal with it when it happens — if it happens,’ she says eventually. ‘Until then, we must not give up. We have always known the chance is slim. But we must try. As long as there is hope, we must try.’

‘Don’t you ever want to give up?’

‘Of course I do. I’ve never told you, because I thought you were so strong that you would not understand…’ Orchid gives a short, strangled laugh. ‘We should talk more. Not just of work.’

‘I know. But there is so much to do… I don’t even read anymore. I feel guilty for every moment I’m not being useful. Yesterday, when we went on that walk, I kept thinking that I shouldn’t have…’

‘We are nearly done anyway,’ Peony says. ‘We can go soon, and find a doctor, and then perhaps —’

‘But what if they still can’t —’

‘Then we keep trying until we find someone who can. Like she would, for us.’

‘I know,’ Orchid says softly, staring at their mother with glittering eyes. ‘She would never give up on us…’

They sit on the floor for a while longer, until she stops crying. Peony holds her, stroking her hair. Their mother wanders outside again. She leaves the door open, and from her place Peony can see outside — the yard with the chickens, and a few houses, and beyond, the fields and the distant forest that looks almost blue in the afternoon haze.

Jade lies on the bed. She is not quite sure how long it’s been. The air is too hot and too cold by turns, and her vision is playing tricks on her. Sometimes she sees Plum, and Magnolia, and the rest of them. Other times — the lights and the creature. It is hard to tell which of these are dreams, and which are real.

Some must be real, she knows. The room has to be, and the bed with its heavy covers — too heavy for Jade’s taste, so she keeps throwing them off. But her servant swaddles her again. Jade seems to remember arguing about it, but she is not sure if she truly did it or only intended to. She also recalls Plum seated there by her bed, brushing her hair, speaking to her in a tongue of which Jade can only understand a few words. If only she could learn… if only she were better at it… but she is too sick to do anything about it now. She remembers trying to explain — to relate — no, she’d not tell the truth, she’s not stupid, of course she made up a story, a good and safe story… Did she find a way to say it? Did Plum understand? Jade cannot be certain.

She sees the creature often, too, and that has to be a dream. It could not have been brought here — not with all these people watching. The being appears comfortable enough, as far as she can tell, but the way it looks at her in those dreams unnerves her. There is accusation in those strange eyes, and longing. She needs to be with it, at least sometimes. She must go to it. The lights call for her, and she must go…

The dark woods swirl above her head, as she falls into the torrid night. In those dreams, Jade is no longer a Princess — no longer to be married and taken away from home. In those dreams, she is just one of many. But even when lost in that darkness, she knows — or feels, rather — that this will not, cannot last. Reality will have to reassert itself. She will have to leave this place, these dreams, and go on to do what she was sent into this land for.

Jade is aware, indistinctly, that a message has been sent to inform the capital of her delay. It will inconvenience them some, she knows, but not too much — it is only an engagement, after all, not a wedding, and so easier to postpone. Maybe they’ll have more time this way to pick a husband for her at last. Maybe she will at least be told his name.

Sometimes Jade dreams of home, too. These are bittersweet visions — the mountains, the white rivers, the sky so high and dark that it was almost as if you could see the stars at noon. She was not let out of the gates much, but at least she could look out of her window, or climb an outer wall and watch from there. Sometimes she saw the goats leaping about, and the sheep in their meadows, and the shepherds. From some windows she could see the sunrise, and sunset from others. And beyond all this land — the shepherds, the sheep, the rivers and grass — the distant peaks rose ever higher, glimmering white with snow…

Jade was never all that wanted there, never all that needed, but still it was home. Wanted or not, at least she belonged there, and the very ground under her feet seemed to recognize her. What will it be like in the capital? Will it ever feel better? Will she be able to love it — and him?

Curled on her bed, with blankets thrown off yet again, Jade cries searing, feverish tears, as Magnolia’s cool hand touches her forehead. A Princess must not complain, provided as she is with all sorts of riches. And Jade does keep silent and never grumbles. But just for the moment, she wishes she could ask, instead, simply to stay here for good. Just for the moment, she wishes she could be one of these girls, instead of herself. Just to fade into the shadows, and walk free…

The spirit rests.

It has always enjoyed these times of respite — when the hard work is done, and all that is left is waiting. It will not be long until it is stronger, larger, more powerful. It will not be long until the next stage of the journey — the next spoke in the ever-repeating wheel of its existence. But for now it can lie back and rest. Its body is still too weak to take much else, anyway.

It likes to lie in the sun, now — the sun that it can once again see, after a long while of only sensing its presence. The warmth is pleasant on its newborn skin. The dwelling the humans built for it is pleasant enough — the spirit likes the smell of the wood they used, and the thin long windows by the roof that it can see the sky out of. The mothers come to meet with it there — to feed it, and play with it, and talk to it in their curious human babble. The creature has not learned to understand it yet, but it will soon enough. As its brain grows and its perception heightens, it will all become much easier.

If only there wasn’t something missing… All the mothers are there but one, and the spirit feels her absence keenly. She had been there at the birth, and that forms a bond that must not be broken until its time. She must feel this, too, yet she has not come. Days go by, many of them, and the mothers come and go — all the rest, the other six, but never her. She has to know she is missed. She has to.

Even in the redolent warmth of sunlight and with the sleek, tangy blood to sustain it, the spirit grows uneasy and restless…

The guards stare at them, but do not speak. They have learned not to interfere by now. But it is clear they still disapprove.

Magnolia breathes in deep as she opens the door. They may think what they will. Her new friend is all that matters.

The Princess smiles the moment the sisters enter, radiant despite her weakness. Plum puts down the food, placing it on a bedside table. Magnolia feels a little ashamed of her own robust health. They have both been through the same cold night, yet she did not as much as sneeze, whereas Jade…

‘Hello,’ she says, and Plum echoes her. Magnolia sits down on the bed. She would hesitate at first, because it is much closer than she knows is appropriate. But the Princess wants them close, and so by now the girls have learned to overstep. ‘Hello, my lady.’

‘Apple,’ she says firmly. ‘My name is Apple.’

Nobody else calls her that — she is ‘my lady’ to them all, and maybe sometimes ‘the lady Jade’. But there is no-one in this room but the three of them now, with the servant gone. So Magnolia repeats the name as asked, and she is glad when that makes the girl smile. Outside, they may be a Princess and her lowly subjects bound to proper silence. But in here, alone, they can at least talk freely.

Not that they can manage much talk. But the Princess is trying. Plum places a board on the bed. The bed is huge — the largest they had in the tavern — so there is more than enough space for a board and three people to sit around it.

‘Where is… Iris?’ the Princess asks, as Plum begins to position the tiny figurines. Carved of walnut and decorated with tiny specs of silver, they are quite an expensive set, but for the Princess their parents allowed them to take it. It is tricky to set up this board for three when it has been designed for five, but Plum has worked out a way.

‘Washing dishes,’ Plum says now, miming the action. ‘She might come later.’

The Princess blinks at this, and Magnolia wonders how much she has understood. It is difficult to tell most of the time. But then they have been up here with her so often now that it sometimes seems they can understand each other without words, in a way.

‘Why don’t you tell us a story, my lady Apple,’ Plum says. ‘You should practice.’

The Princess nods and, after considering the board for a while, begins in a halting, uncertain voice as she moves the first figurine to begin the game.

Her command of their language may for now be little different from that of a toddler, but her skill with the board is impressive. Even Plum cannot always win. Magnolia has long ago given up on trying, and simply enjoys the game — and the tale — throughout her inevitable defeat. It does not matter, when it is only a game. She is glad enough to be here, listening to that voice, seeing her sister and her friend both so content.

It will not last, but Magnolia tries not to dwell. The distance between them cannot be erased, and the different paths they must walk cannot converge. Soon, the Princess — Apple — will have to leave, and Magnolia will have to let her go. It was always going to happen this way. They got more time than expected as is, with her illness and having to stay here longer.

Whatever happens later, at least for now the Princess appears happy. Magnolia can only hope she will go on like this, and find joy in that future life which awaits her in the capital. When the Princess looks up at her, Magnolia smiles encouragingly and does her best to hide her own sadness. It will not be easy to let her go. It has only been a short while, but it will not be easy.

The cart creaks a little as the mare steps from one foot to another. Pine pats her absent-mindedly with one hand, to keep it calm. With her other hand, she counts through the pile.

‘Ten, twelve, fourteen…’

Twenty-two socks has Orchid knitted — eleven pairs, in total. Orchid stands by, holding more goods — scarves, and mittens, and sweaters. Iris is waiting for her turn, too, with her jars.

‘I am so old enough,’ she is muttering under her breath, addressing no-one in particular. ‘I should go. They should let me. Isn’t it only sensible? I’m good with money, good at arithmetics. And the road is not that dangerous, certainly not with a witch. I should so go.’

‘I’d take you if it were up to me,’ Pine says with equanimity, ‘but it is not. You must tell your parents all this, Iris, if you want to come. Here, Orchid, let’s pack the scarves now…’

‘I did tell them,’ Iris goes on gloomily. ‘They don’t care. They don’t understand. Next time, they tell me. They’ve been saying that for years, now.’

Orchid has to bite her tongue not to snap at the girl. Some people have parents who cannot say anything anymore. Iris does not see how well she has it. But it would do no good to shout at her. It is better that she never knows how bad it can be.

Pine notices.

‘They are only trying to protect you,’ she says to Iris, with a glance at Orchid as she speaks. ‘Some are not so lucky, to still have parents who can do that.’

Iris colors.

‘Sorry, Orchid, I didn’t…’

‘Never mind,’ Orchid says. She tries her best to mean it. Iris is a good girl, even if she is going through a somewhat annoying age. They have all been there. ‘It’s all right.’

Pine takes the sweaters and begins to roll them, one by one, neatly so that they don’t crinkle. There’s something meditative about watching her do it. Maybe it’s just because Orchid is tired from her own work this day that it is pleasant to just stand and stare idly, even if it is only for a short while. Day by day, it all goes the same — the milking, the weeding, the mucking and feeding, the digging and picking, the fields that are too large for just the two of them… And through all of it, she knows with guilt that Peony is doing harder jobs, because Orchid is good at knitting, and so she must knit to make the money.

Yet if the fair goes well, they might be done at last, just as Peony said. The thought feels impossible, after all this time. Peony spoke to a traveler recently — very carefully, so as not to alert him to the fact that they have means — about what a city doctor asks for services these days, or a city witch. Not much has changed, which means their calculations remain correct. If the fair goes well, there will be enough for passage for three, and for the doctor’s fare. If it goes well…

A noise — a blaring of horns — shatters the quiet as sure as thunder would, and Orchid spins toward the sound. The mare whinnies, and Pine whispers to her hastily to calm it. The riders are walking down the main road, slow and stately. They are still distant, but Orchid can already see that behind them a carriage is drawn.

Iris’s eyes grow huge.

‘A noble,’ she breathes, amazed. ‘A noble’s come! Who is it?’

‘From the capital,’ Pine says, meaning the direction from which the riders entered the village. ‘Perhaps they’ve come for her.’

The Princess. She had lain ill for a while now — a couple of weeks — but, even with the country being small, it is still barely enough for a messenger to reach the capital, and this procession to leave it and come all this way. They must have ridden fast, at least some parts of the way. Their need for the Princess must be great if they came like this.

The girls kneel and lower their heads. Others around — the villagers who chanced to be out — do the same. The city people coming here is a rare occurrence, but it does happen sometimes, and they all know the rules.

A man dismounts. Orchid can only see his boots, but she guesses that it is his voice that booms —

‘The Prince has arrived to see his bride! Where is the Princess? Show the way!’

The Prince. Orchid really wants to look up — to see him — but it is too risky. Their brush with the law is recent enough that it is best to toe the line for now, and to attract no attention.

Pine, though, thinks differently. Witches have little fear.

‘She is that way.’ Pine must’ve pointed to the tavern. At least she is still kneeling. ‘She has been well cared for.’

The man steps toward the carriage, and his feet disappear from view. There is some muttering, then —

‘I shall proceed on foot,’ a pleasant voice says, and the slight creaking of hinges announces a door opening. ‘You may rise, my loyal peasants. There is no need for that much ceremony. After all, I am not a king yet.’

The riders all give courteous laughs. Orchid stands up as told, and at last dares to take a peek.

The Prince’s eyes are sliding from subject to subject, benevolent but indifferent, as he turns around to take in the village, squinting at the sunlight. It must’ve been dark inside the carriage. His clothes are splendid, if not quite as much as those of the Princess, and his headdress sparkling and magnificent. But Orchid feels let down. If not for his attire, she would not have been able to pick him out of a crowd. Orchid lowers her eyes quickly, fearing he may read her mind somehow and be offended. But he is just a man, no better or worse to her eyes than any other. Somehow she imagined more for their Princess, although she is not quite sure what that should mean.

The Prince proceeds to the tavern, followed by some of his people. The others remain in the road, surrounding the carriage, some surreptitiously wiping road dust off their boots. Iris glances at the tavern, clearly worried.

‘I should go. They might need me…’

She looks at the guards, doubtful, but they don’t react to her words, and she sets off towards the tavern, walking fast and keeping well away from the small procession. Orchid watches her slide into a small backdoor, just as the Prince arrives at the main entrance. He is admitted inside — she can see Magnolia’s mother briefly, her back bent low — and then the quiet descends again.

Orchid sees some of her neighbors muttering to each other, and turns to Pine.

‘Do you think he’ll take her away now?’ she asks quietly. ‘Is she well enough?’

But it is then that Pine gasps in pain and cringes, stumbling. Orchid catches her shoulders, to keep her upright. She sneaks a glance at the guards, but they seem unbothered, most turning away already. Pine does look like she is simply having a headache, to those who do not know what she is. But Orchid knows, and so she is worried.

‘What is it?’ she whispers.

‘Something…’ Pine mutters through clenched teeth, rubbing her forehead with force. ‘I don’t… I need to run home, to check something. Can you take the cart for now? I should be back… shortly… I think.’

As soon as Orchid nods, she turns and strides away unsteadily, soon breaking into a run. The guards watch her go, but don’t stop her. Maybe that is because she is not heading towards the tavern.

Orchid reaches for the reins. As she comes closer, the mare snorts, but never looks away from the riders. Orchid’s is a familiar presence, but theirs is not, and their mounts are large and unknown. Orchid puts the jars Iris left behind into the cart, and leads Pine’s horse towards home, stroking her neck gently to calm her down.

There are no words for this pain.

The world revolves, flashing with lightning bolts of white-hot fire before the eyes of the spirit. Its bones ache, its tendons weep, its blood sears its heart, but none of it compares to the agony in its mind — in its very essence. This is not the time for separation, this is much too early, wrong, unnatural, and the torment cannot be conveyed. This must not be happening. The order of things must not be disturbed, and now that it has been, the spirit is in a deep, debilitating panic.

It is all their fault. Its mind spins, losing its grasp on reason, losing any sense or memory of self. It is they who are taking her away, they who are making her go. They will pay. They will all pay. The pain grows, until it looms larger than the sky, and there is nothing left.

Rent by its own broken magic, trapped in a cage of agonized flesh, hurt and infuriated and lost, the spirit wails and shudders, and has no intent to stop…