A brittle bouquet of weeds and grey flowers fall from my hand onto a cold pile of earth that now covers Mother-Desmond's resting place. Gossamer petals and crisp stems mingle with the air on the way down, and the wind picks up flowers from the last several weeks. Cold, sharp flakes of lint fall from the sky now, trapping themselves in my hair and turning to drops of water upon my nose and cheeks. I remove myself from the earth beds, where the Broken Ones sleep, and sigh.

"I am free," I think, with a mix of fear and excitement. My eyes cannot find the edges of Drakesheath in the way that they could find the edges of my bedroom. A person could go mad trying to find the walls of the world that now seems too great to fully explore. The ceiling above me is too high to wash, but someone is doing it. How else could it appear so clean and white? Why else would flecks of frozen foam descend upon the leafy, cold floor?

"I am free," I repeat, this time remembering. "I am free once I get John the Baptist's head for King Herod." I remember the story that Mother-Desmond read to me. King Herod now lives in the warm manorhouse with new servants. The cruel, stocky wolf-man closed all the doors, barring my way back in. My only friends have been the dumb beasts of the outdoors and the winged singers. The black, oily one was of considerable comfort to me in the first fortnight, but she has lately found other pursuits.

Unsure where to find John the Baptist, whom Mother-Desmond had called Edmund, I wander. There is much ado on the far end of the village, near the wood. There are shrieks, playful shrieks. I also manage a glimpse of a wonderful flying creature that appears to be made of stone. "Wondrous, like me," I say to myself. I circle the cottage, a place far less intimidating than the village. I feel the valves in my heart release spurts of steam, as I become excited with the thought that I may find more two-legged friends, at last.