Chapter 2

Before I was six, I hated my sister, because even though we were twins, I always lived in her shadow.

Every morning there was only one cup of moonflower tea in the house, and it always went to Elena's side.

The living room walls were covered in her photos: newborn, first birthday, silver braids, the first time her wings appeared. An entire wall, floor to ceiling. Not a single picture of me.

The worst was the nights. Every evening before bed, Mom would sit at Elena's bedside and teach her how to braid runic charms. Silver thread, gold thread, beads of crushed gemstone, one charm after another, until Elena's windowsill was crowded with them in every color, more cheerful than a jewelry shop window.

I used to crouch in the doorway and watch. I'd see Mom holding Elena's hands, guiding her through the loops and knots.

"Wind this one more time, yes, exactly like that."

Elena would hold up a lopsided little charm. "Is it pretty, Mom?"

"It's beautiful." Mom kissed her on the forehead.

The child crouching in the doorway was never looked at, not once.

The thing that pushed me over the edge was a pair of shoes.

One winter when I was nine, Elena's boots wore through and Mom took her into Silverleaf Town that same day to buy a new pair. White, with soft fur trim at the ankle. Elena wore them home and kept spinning in circles around the house, bouncing with every step.

I looked down at mine. They were Elena's old pair from two years ago. The soles were ground down to almost nothing, the fabric split open at the big toe. Every rainy day, water seeped in.

"I want new shoes too."

Dad was crouched in the doorway fixing a chair and didn't look up. "Yours are fine."

"The sole is gone! Rain gets in! My feet are soaking wet every day!"

"Stuff some rags in." His voice was completely flat, like he was commenting on the weather. "Your sister has a weak constitution. If her feet get cold she ends up at the healer's. You're tough. You'll be fine."

You'll be fine.

Those words broke the last thread inside me.

I ran into Elena's room and threw myself at the windowsill. I swept every single runic charm to the floor, grabbed them into fists, and stomped on them one by one.

"I hate you!"

I stood in the wreckage of all that shredded thread and screamed at Elena, who had come running in after me. "I hate that you were born into this family! If it weren't for you, the shoes would be mine! The moonflower tea would be mine! Mom would be mine!"

Elena stood in the doorway, her face white as paper. Her tears fell, one drop then another, but she made no sound. She just slowly crouched down and started picking up the pieces from the floor, one by one.

Mom burst in from the kitchen and grabbed my arm, fingers digging in hard. She didn't hit me. She just pointed at the ruins on the floor and said, word by word, "Do you have any idea who those were for?"

I went still.

"Your sister made every single one for you." Mom's voice was shaking. "She said the charms would keep you safe, make sure the curse never touched you. When she was gone, you'd have these so you wouldn't forget her."

The windowsill was empty. The floor was full of broken thread. Elena was still picking up pieces, head down, shoulders shaking.

"Mom, don't." Her voice came out muffled. "It's fine. I'll make more."

Dad made me stand on the balcony all that night as punishment. December, well below freezing, in just a thin shirt.

By the middle of the night I'd lost all feeling in my hands and feet, and my thoughts were coming apart. Through the wall, I heard my parents talking.

"What did the healer actually say, last visit?" Dad's voice.

Mom didn't answer for a long time. "At most... eighteen."

"Eighteen." Dad repeated it. He sounded like he'd just caved in.

Outside on the balcony, the winter wind filled my shirt like a sail, but I couldn't feel the cold anymore.

Eighteen. Elena was nine.

So it was real. Elena was actually running out of time.

Later that evening, after the birthday cake had been eaten, Mom and Dad helped Elena toward the bedroom.

Even though we were elves, Elena had always been fragile, sick more times than I could count. By now, even walking a few steps made her stop to catch her breath.

"Should we look in on the cellar?" At the bedroom doorway, Dad suddenly lowered his voice.

Mom settled Elena into bed, tucked the blankets in tight, then leaned against the doorframe and closed her eyes for a moment.

"In the morning."

She finally spoke, her voice so raw it was barely sound. "Just tonight, let Elena have this birthday in peace. Tomorrow it'll all be over." A beat, and then she added, like she was trying to convince herself: "Emma is strong. She can make it through one night."

Dad moved his lips, then swallowed whatever he was going to say.

He stood there a few seconds, then turned and went to the kitchen, rummaged deep into the back of the refrigerator, found a half-empty bottle of healing tonic, scraped out a pot of cold honey-oat porridge, and started walking toward the cellar.