Marta the healer found Wren before sunrise, sitting alone at the edge of camp with her hands held out in front of her like they belonged to someone else.
“You’re not sleeping,” Marta said, settling beside her with the careful slowness of a woman whose joints had earned the right to complain.
“My hands keep changing. Just the fingertips. Just for a moment, then they go back.”
Marta took one of Wren’s hands in both of hers, turning it over, studying the nail beds with an attention that made Wren’s pulse quicken. “How long has this been happening?”
“Since I came here. It never happened at home. Not once, in nineteen years.”
“That’s because it couldn’t.” Marta set the hand down gently. “Child, I’ve been healing wolves in this camp for thirty years, rejects and rogues and the occasional fo
