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Alice's evening had left her in a foul temper.

She'd woken up this morning with the smell of pig fresh in the air, straw sticking to her hair and poking at her toes. She was angry with Mother and angry with Oliver and one of the pigs had licked her face from chin to eyeball and, good-grief-and-peanut-pie, she very desperately needed a bath.

Alice shook out her skirts (stupid skirts) as best she could and set off for the pond. She was so preoccupied with the sorts of thoughts that preoccupied an almost twelve-year-old that even a perfect morning full of rainlight couldn't soothe her.

Stupid Oliver Newbanks—she kicked a clump of dirt—had the gooseberries to talk to her—she kicked another clump—no good ferenbleeding skyhole! She scooped up a handful of dirt and threw it at nothing in particular.

Alice hadn't seen Oliver Newbanks since he told the entire class that she was the ugliest girl in all of Ferenwood. He went on and on about how she had a very big nose and very small
eyes and very thin lips and hair the color of old milk and she thought she might cry when he said it. He was wrong, she'd insisted. Her nose was a nice nose and her eyes were quite lovely and her lips were perfectly full and her hair looked more like cotton flowers but he wouldn't listen.

No one would.

It was bad enough that Father had left, bad enough that Mother had become a prune of a person, bad enough that their life savings consisted of only twenty-five stoppicks and ten tintons. Alice had been having a rough year and she couldn't take much more. Everyone had laughed and laughed as she stomped a bangled ankle, furious and blinking back tears. She'd decided that perhaps she'd leave more of an impression on Oliver if she spent all her finks pulling off his ear and making him eat it in front of everyone.
That will teach him to listen to me
, she thought. But then Alice was kicked out of school because apparently what
she
did was worse than what
he
said, which seemed awful-cruel because mean words tasted so much worse than his stupid ears and anyway, Mother has had to hometeach her ever since.

Alice was starting to understand why Mother might not like her very much.

Alice sighed and gave up on her skirts, untying the ties and letting them fall to the grass. Clothes exhausted her. She hated
pants even more than she hated skirts, so on they stayed, as long as Mother was around. It was indecent, Mother had said to her, to walk around in her underthings, so Alice decided right then that one day she would grow a pair of wings and fly away. Were it up to Alice, she would've walked around in her underthings forever, barefoot and bangled, vanilla hair braided down to her knees.

She pulled off her blouse and tossed that to the ground, too, closing her eyes as she lifted her head toward the sun. Rainlight drenched the air, bathing everything in an unearthly glow. She opened her mouth to taste it, but no matter how desperately she'd tried, she never could. Rainlight did not touch the people, because it was made only for the land. Rainlight was what put the magic in their world; it filtered through the air and into the soil; it grew their plants and trees and added dimension and vibrance to the explosion of colors they lived in. Red was ruby, green was fluorescent, yellow was simply incandescent. Color was life. Color was
everything
.

Color, you see, was the universal sign of magic.

The people of Ferenwood were all born with their own small spark of magic, and the food of the land nurtured that gentle flame of their being. They each had one gift. One great
magical talent. And they would perform this magical talent—a
Surrender
, it was called—in exchange for the ultimate task. It was tradition.

Alice opened her eyes. Today the clouds seemed puffed into existence, exhalations from the mouth of a greater being. Soon the clouds, too, would rain, and Alice's life would thunder into something new.

Purpose.

She would be twelve years old. This was the year.

Tomorrow, she thought.
Tomorrow
.

She let herself breathe, casting off the Oliver Newbankses of the world, casting off the pain Mother had caused her, casting off the pain Father had caused them, casting off the uselessness of three entire brothers who were far too small to be of any help when help was needed most. So what if she wasn't as colorful as everyone else in Ferenwood? Alice was just as magical, and she'd finally have the chance to prove it.

She picked up a fallen twig and tied its bendy body around her neck, pinching it together with her thumb and index finger as she hummed a familiar song. Eyes closed, feet dancing their way toward the pond, she was her own music, her body her favorite thing she'd ever owned.

Oh, life had been a lonely one, but she knew how to pass the time.

The warm pond was the color of green amethyst. It smelled of sweet nectar but tasted like nothing at all. Alice untied her underthings and left them in the grass, pausing only to unweave her braid before jumping in.

She sank right to the bottom. She sat there awhile, letting her limbs relax. Soon, she felt the familiar tickles of kissingfish and opened her eyes long enough to see them nibbling at her skin. She smiled and swam up, the fish following her every move. They wriggled alongside her, nudging her elbows and knees in an attempt to get closer.

Alice swam until she was so clean she practically shined, and then the warm air dried her hair and skin so quickly she had time left to wander before her ferenberry picking for the day.

Alice was always trying to find her own adventures while the other kids were in school. Mother was supposed to be home-teaching her, but she rarely did. Two years ago, when Mother was still freshly angry with Alice for getting kicked out of school (and for what she'd done to Oliver Newbanks), she'd left a stack of books on the kitchen table and told Alice to study
them, warning her that if she didn't, she'd grow up to be the silliest girl in all of Ferenwood, never mind the ugliest.

Sometimes Alice wanted to say unkind things to Mother.

Still, Alice loved her mother. Really, she did. Alice had made peace with her parental lot in life long ago. But let us put this plainly: Alice had always preferred Father and she had no trouble saying so. Father was more than a parent to Alice; he was her friend and confidant. Life with Father had made all hard things bearable; he'd seen to it that his daughter was so thoroughly loved that she'd never known the depth of her own insecurities. In fact, he took up so much room in her heart that she'd seldom noticed she had no other friends to name.

It was only when Father disappeared that Alice began to see and feel the things she'd been long protected from. The shock of loss unlatched her armor, and soon cold winds and whispers of fear snuck through the cracks in her skin; she wept until the whites of her eyes dried up and the lids rusted open, refusing to close long enough to let her sleep.

Grief was a tangible weight Alice's small body slowly learned to carry. She was just nine years old when Father left, but even tiny Alice would wake up scraping the bottom of her heart in search of him, and each time she came up raw, hollow, and aching.

Dear reader: You should know that Alice, a decidedly proud girl, wouldn't approve of my sharing this personal information
with you. I recognize that the details of her grief are private. But it is imperative, in my humble opinion, that you know just how deeply she loved Father. Losing him had unzipped her from top to bottom, and yet, her love for him had solidified her spirit. She was broken and unbroken all at once, and the longer she stayed in Ferenwood without him, the lonelier she became.

For Alice Alexis Queensmeadow, some things were very simple: If Father had gone, so too would she, because Alice had never wanted anything more than to follow his lead.

Succeeding in the Surrender, you see, was her only way out.

Mother was waiting in the yard
when Alice got back. Her amber eyes were bright against her brown skin and narrowed in Alice's direction. She had one hand on her hip and one hand holding a basket. Mother wore skirts, just as Alice did, but Mother liked hers clean and simple, solid colors and layers; long-sleeved blouses tucked into her skirts and folded up to the elbows. Alice's skirts were cumbersome, weighted down with beads and jewels and sequins, intricate patterns embroidered into the cloth.

Plain fabric gave Alice headaches.

Alice watched Mother closely—her hay-green curls had sprung all about her face—and Alice thought she was growing finer and lovelier every day. Sometimes looking at Mother made Alice miss Father even more. If he'd had any idea how much beauty was waiting for him at home, Alice thought, surely he would have returned.

Mother's eyes softened their stare as Alice approached. She
shifted her weight and let the basket gentle onto the grass, holding her now-empty hand out to her daughter.

Alice took it.

They walked in silence toward the four-room cottage that was their home, its honeyed-stone exterior a familiar sight. A room for eating, a room for sitting, a room for Mother, and a room for Alice and the triplets. It wasn't enough, but somehow it was.

The clay shingles were suffocated by climbing ivy that had braided itself across the roof so tightly it was nearly impossible to remove. A few tendrils had escaped down the sides of the house, and Mother pushed stray vines out of the way as they walked through the open front door.

The house was still. Her brothers were still at school.

Mother pointed to an empty chair. Alice stared at it.

Alice took her seat, and Mother sat down beside her and set her with a look so fierce that Alice hadn't even realized she was in trouble until just then. Her heart, poor thing, had grown feet and was kicking her from the inside. She clasped her hands together and, despite a sudden moment of panic, wondered what she should eat for noonlunch.

Mother sighed. “I had a visit from Mrs. Newbanks this morning.”

Stupid Mrs. Newbanks
, Alice nearly said out loud.

“She says Oliver has been trying to get in touch with you. You remember Oliver, of course.”

More silence from Alice.

“Alice,” Mother said softly, looking at the wall now. “Oliver was Surrendered last year. He's thirteen now.”

Alice knew this already.

Alice knew Oliver was a year older than she was, that he was never supposed to be in her middlecare class. But she also knew he'd taken a year off to tend to Mr. Newbanks when Mr. Newbanks had come down with the fluke, so Oliver had to stay back a year and ended up in her class. Stupid, sick Mr. Newbanks ruining her entire stupid life. Stupid Mrs. Newbanks having such a stupid kid. Stupid Newbankses being stupid all over the place.

Alice didn't care if Oliver had already Surrendered. Who cared? She didn't. She didn't care about him. She cared about
her
.

Tomorrow was the day her whole life would change.

She was sure of it.

Alice crossed her arms. Uncrossed them. “I don't know why we're having this conversation,” she finally said. “I don't care a knuckle for Oliver Newbanks. Oliver Newbanks can choke on a toad.”

Mother tried not to smile. She stood up to stir a pot on the
stove. “You are not curious,” Mother asked, her back to Alice, “to know what his Surrender tasked him to do?”

“No.” Alice got up to leave, shoving her chair back in the process, wood screeching against wood.

“Sit down, Alice.” Mother's voice was no longer gentle.

Alice hesitated in the doorway, fists clenched. “No,” she said again.

“Alice Alexis Queensmeadow, you will sit back down this instant.”

“No.”

“
Alice
—”

She tore off running.

Out the door and down the path and through the meadow and into the field, past the pond and across the bridge and over the hill and up and up and up the tallest tree in all of Ferenwood. There she sat, heart bumping into bone, and decided she would not leave this tree until she died.

Or until she got bored.

Whichever came first.