“Even a little child can tell the difference between a box of chocolates and a basket of apples!” she shouted.

Anger. Good. He preferred that to crying.

“If you showed a child a picture of both those things, I assume they would know which was which—if they were old enough to know such things,” Vlad said mildly. At random, he cut one of the decks of cards and turned over the top card. It showed a table laden with food: mashed potatoes, a salad, a basket of bread, cooked vegetables, and in the center, a huge roast.

My answer to what should be done with the bison, he thought as he restored the card to the deck.

“So all this emotional fuss is about you selecting a card that didn’t match the specific danger?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “Did anyone ask you a question? Did anyone, including you, ask, ‘What is in that package?’”

Meg’s brow wrinkled in concentration. “I selected the card with the apples when the delivery truck drove up. Before the package was in the office. But, for a moment, the picture . . .”

When she trailed off, he finished the thought. “It was like one of your training images had been superimposed over the card, showing you a truth beyond what the eye could see.”

“Yes. And when I went to the front counter to talk to Harry, my tongue began burning, like that was where I needed to cut to reveal the prophecy.”

He’d seen the amount of blood that flowed when a tongue was bitten or cut. He didn’t want to think about Meg putting that silver razor in her mouth.

“But you didn’t need to do that because you already sensed that there was something wrong with whatever was in the package.” Vlad touched one of the other decks, an idle movement. “Meg, you made a connection between two things and gave warning. How is that inadequate?”

“Because I have to figure out how to make this work for everyone!” She waved a hand to indicate all the decks of cards.

“No, you don’t,” he snapped. “You were asked to consider if using these cards is a possible alternative to girls cutting themselves to release the visions, not to figure out everything in a couple of days. And we’re not talking about the other girls right now. We’re talking about you. Just you. So what is this really about?”

“My prophecies used to be accurate,” Meg cried. “It cost a lot to buy a cut on my skin because my prophecies were accurate.”

“They still are.”

She shook her head so fiercely he feared she’d hurt her neck. “I’m not accurate anymore. Not like I was in . . .” She swallowed hard. “In the compound.”

“When you speak prophecy, you don’t remember what you see; you don’t remember what you say. How do you know you were more accurate?”

“The Controller’s clients wouldn’t have paid so much if I wasn’t,” Meg whispered. She avoided his eyes. “Where is Simon?”

“He’s having a run with Jackson and Blair while he tries to figure out what to do with eleven large, smelly mistakes.” Vlad sighed. “Maybe it isn’t your prophecies that are suddenly inaccurate; maybe it’s the skills of your interpreters. After all, this is a new experience for everyone in the Courtyard. But you’ve never had anyone show you what you said or draw little pictures like Merri Lee has done to figure out the images. You’ve never seen your own prophecies come to pass, so you’ve never seen if they were true.”

“Until now.” Meg looked around the sorting room.

“I haven’t been keeping score, but I think at least half of the time since you’ve been living in the Courtyard, what you’ve seen hasn’t happened because you saw it. Think about it, Meg. The ponies didn’t die of poison, because you saw them dying and identified where we’d find the poison. Nadine Fallacaro didn’t die when her shop was set on fire, because you saw images that warned enough of us about who and where. So many of the blood prophets were rescued because you saw the danger.” Anger burned in him again. “In fact, Ms. Corbyn, your prophecies have been so accurate, it is your fault that we ended up with those stupid bison!”

She took a step back, despite the table being between them. “But I saw them! When Simon wanted to know about the River Road Community, I saw the bison. And . . . and Hope drew a picture of them!”

“You saw them. Hope drew a picture of them. And everyone just followed all the steps that would make that happen without stopping to think if it was something that should happen!”

Meg blinked.

Vlad paced the width of the room a couple of times, the only thing he could think to do with his agitation.

“The Sanguinati are urban hunters for the most part. What do we know about bison?” Nothing at all until he did a little research, but the bison were already on the train by the time he received a message from Tolya expressing some concern about the scheme. “Henry, who grew up in the Northwest, didn’t oppose the idea. Neither did Elliot. And Simon . . . All right. I understand his thinking to some degree. Fresh meat on the hoof. Lots of meat. Enough to feed the terra indigene and the human pack. But it takes a pack experienced in hunting an animal that big to succeed without getting hurt.”

“Hurt? The Wolves could get hurt? No one said they could get hurt.” She sounded bristly, and the fierceness that filled her eyes made him wary.

Vlad stopped pacing. He could picture her, a human who could be felled by a paper cut, waving her broom at a bison, ready to smack it senseless to protect a Wolf pup. The idea that she might try to do exactly that was funny and frightening in equal measure.