There she stopped, for the glow had a source: a Firebird.
The graceful creature sat atop a perch near the “roof” of the dwelling—such as it was. A network of branches hung up there, all tangled together and covered with foliage. The Firebird sat with its sharp claws hooked over a lower-hanging branch and its glorious tail spilling halfway to the ground. Crimson and orange and gold and purple met Rosia’s eyes in a spectacular display of color, and the bird radiated the ruddy glow of a burning sunset.
What was more, the Firebird had shed some of those feathers. More than a few. The floor—rough-spun matting worked from forest reeds—was covered in at least half a dozen of them.
“She was sick,” said the girl, from somewhere Rosia couldn’t see. “But she’s well now.”
“She’s so beautiful,” said Rosia, with awe.
“Yes, she is, and now go, please.”
“Are you . . . do you live out here alone?”
“I’m never alone.”
“I mean without . . . humans.”
A soft laugh answered her, scornful. The message was clear without words: What use have I for humans?
“I see,” said Rosia. “Thank you for helping me.”
“You didn’t need help.”
Rosia withdrew. But she didn’t leave right away. She stayed.
Later, she could not have said what prompted her to do so. She hoped it was curiosity or, better yet, concern for the Pelagir girl. She hoped it wasn’t a calculated plan.
* * *
* * *
:This is the hard part, isn’t it?: said Lilan, when Rosia’s tale slowed to a halt.
Rosia swallowed. “Yes.”
:I think I can guess what happened.:
“You can?”
:You took a feather.:
Rosia hung her head. “I did.”
* * *
* * *
It wasn’t the largest of them, not by a long shot. The feather she took was only a small one, about as long as her thumb. And there were seven more that she didn’t take—she’d counted.
But that didn’t change anything about what she had done. She had waited until the girl had gone away, and she had crept back into her forest-hut and taken one of the Firebird’s feathers.
She had done so with her heart beating so fast, she thought it might burst. Fear of the Firebird had done that; what if she objected to her feathers being taken? What if she somehow told the girl before Rosia could get away, and Rosia was caught?
Rosia the peddler’s daughter—Rosia the thief—had scarpered out of there as fast as she could go, her stolen feather clutched tightly in her fist, and she had not stopped running until her shaking legs would carry her no farther.
Then she had collapsed, shaking, into the mud, and sat there for some time.
She’d stolen something. She was a thief.
People had thrown that word at her pa before and her ma. At her, though she was a child. They had the look of pickpockets about them, some said: shabby attire, and the road-weary look of people who never stopped walking. People who could filch something today, and by tomorrow they’d be too far away to fear the consequences.
Ma had always brushed off such remarks, but Rosia could see that they hurt Pa. She’d ferociously resented the people who could say such things, who could believe so ill of strangers just because of the way they looked.
Her parents never stole. No matter how difficult the winters sometimes got.
Rosia would never steal anything either. Never.
She had been so sure of that, once.
Well, never had not lasted very long.
She should take the feather back. Right now, before it was missed.
But that was no good. The Firebird had seen her take it, probably, and she would tell the girl what Rosia had done. There was no undoing her deed now. It was too late.
And she needed the feather. There was no getting around that, either. The emptiness in her stomach and the weakness in her body had prompted her to do it; the coin she could get from one tiny feather would get her through the winter. Probably several winters.
* * *
* * *
“And that’s when you showed up,” Rosia finished.
:Well, that explains why I had to delve into the Pelagirs to find you. Though I still don’t understand why you ran away.:
“At first, I thought the girl sent you.”
:Aha.:
“Then I realized what you were . . .”
:And ran all the harder.:
“Yes.” Rosia sniffed, and she swallowed an incipient tear. “Now you know why.”
:Are you ever going to come out of those bushes?: Lilan asked.
Rosia stifled a vague desire to remain there until she starved to death; that would solve the problem, for sure, though it wouldn’t make amends to the girl with the Firebird.
But that wasn’t something a grown-up would do.
Finally she sighed, and she shoved her way free of the thicket. She emerged rather scratched, but hale enough, and presented herself to the Companion.
:I definitely like the look of you,: said Lilan, snuffling Rosia all over with her enormous, warm nose.
“Even after . . . that story?” Rosia squirmed, though one hand crept up to smooth Lilan’s velvety ears.
Lilan appeared to think it over. :It is a tale of deepest iniquity,: she said. :No doubt about it.:
“I know,” said Rosia sadly—and only then did she notice the twinkle in Lilan’s ice-blue eyes and the warmth that attended the words.
:I’ve heard nothing to change my mind,: said Lilan firmly. :You are my Chosen.:
“I can’t be.”
:You know that they have food in Haven? Quite a lot of it.:
Rosia’s stomach growled at the prospect. “Don’t taunt me,” she sighed. “I can’t go with you. You can’t have a thief as a Herald.”
:You’re sure about that, are you?: said Lilan.
Rosia nodded.
:How about a reformed thief?:
Mutely, Rosia shook her head.
:Hm. Well, that’s disappointing. I had better get back to Haven and start again. Maybe you’ll let me walk with you as far as the road?:
A tear came, one stubborn droplet Rosia could not swallow. “Of course,” she said with false heartiness, and fell into step with the Companion.