Page 59 of Harnessed in Gold

I nod. He scolded me once for plucking leaves. How badly did I hurt those trees?

His smile is thoughtful. “The same way you feel after a bath. Or a good night’s sleep.”

“Not sad?”

“No, relieved.”

“And you can make them move?” See one pine tree, standing guard over Newberry Hall.

“I can’t make them walk?—”

“But you can bend them.”

He boldly meets my eyes. “If I need to.”

He doesn’t regret the incident at all.

I turn away and clear my throat. “And you were only fourteen?”

“Yes. Only fourteen.”

It’s hard to picture him at that awkward age, but maybe it’s different for faeries. At fourteen, I was shopping at Claire’s, mooning over the Salvatore brothers, and writing terrible poetry. Such a rough age for girls, at least here in the Subworld. “Wait, your sister’s fourteen, isn’t she? Has she woven yet?”

Leo’s back stiffens and his jaw tenses. Snatching his nearly empty glass, he shoots unsteadily to his feet and all but throws himself into the kitchen.

What the hell?

“Leo?” I rush in after him and find him gripping the counter, staring into the sink. “I’m sorry, did I?—”

“No.” He turns to me, dragging a hand down his face. “You didn’t do anything.”

I could leave it at that and head back to my lunch, but I can’t. Not when he’s so obviously hurting. And not when the idea of him hurting hurts me.

My feet drag me closer. “Tell me.”

He shakes his head. Hesitates.

“What’s wrong with your sister?”

His exhale fills the silence. Patiently, I wait until he speaks. “She hasn’t woven.”

“Oh.” Wasn’t Rime fifteen when he wove? “But… I mean, she’s still young, so…”

Leo’s eyes snap to mine. “She’s not going to.”

“Oh,” I mumble, yet again.

“She’s been trying, but nothing has called to her. No plants or trees, no animals.” His voice strangles its way through his list. “No birds or insects. Nothing.” He slumps against the counter.

I lean alongside him, so close my arm brushes his. “Is it that bad not to weave with anything? I mean, surely she isn’t the only one.” And Nàdar is supposed to be egalitarian, isn’t it? So there shouldn’t be pariahs there.

“Yes, there are others, maybe four or five percent of us. We have a name for them: the Unwoven.”

Either it’s the words, or the way he says them, butThe Unwovensounds like a curse, not a name.

He trains his eyes on the ceiling. “They’re not supposed to be treated any differently, but they are. We tiptoe around them, whisper, speak gently?—”

“Like people do around someone who has cancer or a disability.”