‘My intent was never to interfere, but only to make the small changes that would let the children live.’ The child was mine. ‘Do you prefer a dead child to a live one?’ Mine is mine. Not yours. The logic of a three-year-old. The pressure on my chest increased, and a translucent shape coalesced above me. She shimmered blue and silver. I recognized which child she claimed by the markings she shared with the child’s mother. The mother had been the woman who claimed to work with Silver. Thymara, the winged-and-clawed Elderling.
