Everyone applauded. Meg rubbed her skin above the ankle and gently nudged Sam away from her legs. The pup obeyed, whining a soft protest as he moved to a spot right in front of her chair.

“Meg?” Simon said. Concern, warning, and demand all wrapped in one quiet word.

“Not pins and needles,” she whispered. “Just a little too warm.” She gave Sam an apologetic smile.

Just a little too warm. Merri Lee had described sunburn as a prickling heat that caused skin to peel. Which sounded disgusting—and possibly dangerous for a cassandra sangue, even though the skin wasn’t actually cut. Could she have been in the sun too long today? Did that little bit of skin really feel hotter than the rest of her leg, or was it warm because of Sam, or even from her own rubbing?

“We need a drummer,” Charlie said. “Anyone willing to try?”

No one moved. Then Captain Burke rose and made his way to the drum. “Let’s see if I remember anything from my misspent youth.”

He spent a minute tapping the drum and learning the different sounds it made. Then he nodded to Charlie.

“Give us a rhythm,” Henry said. “We’ll find something to fit it.” Then the Grizzly nodded to Simon, who looked at the Wolves.

Catching his uncle’s look, Sam sat up in anticipation.

A simple rhythm that filled the square. Henry and Charlie joined in, their instruments reminding Meg of the sound of leaves stirring in the wind. Then Theral joined in, and her fiddle became the sound of a shallow stream. And then the Wolves sang—and the Courtyard, with its human shops and human instruments, embraced the sound of the wild country.

When Simon tipped his head back and howled, Meg joined him, and Merri Lee and Ruth joined her. Then Karl and Michael added their voices while the Crows cawed and the Owls hooted. Only the Hawks and Sanguinati were silent.

Meg looked to her right, where the Sanguinati sat on the steps or hovered as columns of black smoke.

Smoke, she thought as the skin above her ankle prickled. Grilled cheese sandwich. Merri Lee saying, “Don’t worry about it, Meg. It was your first try. So the crust burned a little. We’ll trim off the burned bits, and the sandwich will be fine.”

Meg looked at the oil lamps providing light, how the flames, even protected within the glass globes, flickered and danced.

Smoke . . . and fire.

The annoying discomfort she’d felt on and off during the concert suddenly turned into a buzzing under her skin that felt so painful it burned.

She cried out and clutched her ankle. In the silence that followed her cry, she thought she heard a distant siren, but she wasn’t sure if the sound was real.

“I have to cut,” she gasped. “I have to—”

No time to explain or argue. No time.

Meg rushed out of the Market Square. Had to reach the Liaison’s Office. Privacy. Bandages.

“Meg!” Simon howled as he ran after her.

She fell against the back door of the office, and almost fell again when she turned the knob and the door swung open.

Simon rushed in behind her, grabbing her to keep her from falling. She felt his claws pricking through her T-shirt.

“What can we do?” Charlie asked, piling into the back room with some of the Wolves.

“Let me through. Move.” Merri Lee shoved her way through the Wolves, who, surprised, lifted their lips in a silent snarl.

“Everyone, get out.”

Meg couldn’t see her, but Tess’s voice sounded oddly harsh.

The Wolves and Charlie took one look at Tess, coming in behind them, and bolted for the sorting room.

“I have to cut,” Meg gasped, pulling the silver folding razor out of her pocket. “I have to.” Too desperate now to walk the few steps to the bathroom, she sat on the floor and opened the razor with shaking hands.

“Okay, you have to cut, but we’re going to do this the right way,” Merri Lee said, her voice stern yet shaking. She grabbed the pen and pad of paper Meg kept on the table in the back room.

Yes. Had to do it right.

Smoke. Fire. Sirens.

Meg looked at Simon, who stared at her with amber eyes that held flickers of red—a sign of anger. Not fully human now. Too upset to hold the form.

“Can’t . . . wait,” she gasped.

“Focus on us,” Tess commanded, kneeling in front of her. “You know what you need to tell us. Speak, prophet, and we will listen.”

Command and promise. Meg’s hand steadied as she set the razor where the skin above her ankle burned—and made the cut.

• • •

Monty pushed into the back room, following Tess. Burke and Shady came in behind him. Feeling a change in the air, he guessed someone had opened the delivery doors in the sorting room to let more of the Others crowd into the office without antagonizing Tess—or Simon.

“You know what you need to tell us,” Tess said. “Speak, prophet, and we will listen.”

He saw the change in Meg as Tess said the words. He was sure that Burke and, especially, Shady, who hadn’t seen this before, were watching everything, from the way Merri Lee knelt beside Meg, pen poised over paper to record everything that was said, to the agony stamped on Meg’s face when she made the cut and how her expression changed to a blank wantonness as she began to speak.

“Woman,” Meg said dreamily. “Dark hair. A loaf of bread. Blackened crust. Blackened arms. Smoke. Fire. Screaming. Bread is burning. Woman is screaming. Burning.”

Sighing, Meg stretched out on the floor.