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butterfly, girl. Lady Elona should go. As the baron’s daughter, she represents our village.”
    Elona beamed and nodded.
    Goodman AnMere nodded furiously. “There’s an order to things, and we wouldn’t want to insult the baron. Wouldn’t yeh say, Watcherman?”
    The round Watcherman stepped forward. Behind him, Bethy barely held tears back. Sim stared blankly at Pomella, his face pale.
    Before Watcherman AnGent could respond, a familiar voice cut in with a hard tone. “This is a family matter. My daughter and I will speak.” Firelight danced across the dark features of her fathir’s bearded face. He seemed to avoid looking at Pomella.
    A sickening feeling swirled in Pomella’s stomach. Why did Fathir always have to decide things for her? She opened her mouth to protest, but seeing the chiseled expression on his face, she snapped it shut.
    â€œNo.” Elona’s soft voice cut like a shearing knife. She slipped off her faerie wings. “You are all mistaken if you think this is a matter for a commoner family. It is a matter for mine . The girl is not allowed to leave my fathir’s barony.”
    Nobody in the village seemed to breathe. The Watcherman cleared his throat. “Lady AnBroke, you understand the High Mystic directly summoned Pomella and—”
    â€œI understand perfectly, AnGent,” Elona said, picking a piece of dirt off her lacy sleeve. “If the High Mystic feels wronged, she can petition my fathir at a later time. But she should know better than to pilfer commoners from him.”
    Pomella looked to the Watcherman for help and then back to Elona. The young noblewoman most likely realized that the High Mystic’s summons would supersede the baron’s, or any other noble’s. But a sickening fear wormed through Pomella as she realized Lady AnBroke could still make her life miserable if she wanted to.
    Elona stared at Pomella, anger storming behind her eyes. “I do not give the girl permission to put a single grubby toe outside the barony. Let it be known that if she leaves the barony and returns without becoming a Mystic, my fathir will declare her Unclaimed.”
    Somebody in the crowd gasped. Anxiety roared in Pomella’s chest. Unclaimed! She might as well be dead!
    Watcherman AnGent flexed his hands and steadied his voice. “Lady AnBroke, I don’t think it’s fair to punish Pomella for—”
    â€œYou are incapable of determining what is fair, commoner . That is why you are cared for by your betters. Ready my horse and escort. I must report this atrocity to my fathir at once.”
    Watcherman AnGent bowed his head. Nothing else could be said. Pomella and the rest of the village curtsied or bowed, as was appropriate. Elona turned her back and stormed off the stage, dropping her faerie wings onto the grass.
    Trying to salvage something of the festival, the Watcherman urged Bethy back onto the green to try to continue the Toweren . But one by one the villagers shook their heads, slipping back to their homes, where they locked their doors for the first time in memory. At least one voice mumbled, “Spoiled child,” from the darkness.
    Hoping to disappear unseen, Pomella slipped away and leaned against the hidden side of a nearby home. Her eyes burned as she struggled to find her breath.
    Unclaimed.
    By the Saints, what would she do now?
    As she began to walk home, she caught sight of Sim coming over to her. It was too much. She couldn’t deal with him, too, right now. She broke into a run, and fled.
    *   *   *
    Fathir scratched his beard. “You can’t go.”
    Pomella slouched in her chair, mindlessly picking the embroidery on her dress. Her clothes basket still sat on top of the table. Her fathir paced their small living space while one of his calloused carpenter hands rubbed his temple.
    Maybe he was right. Maybe it was foolish to leave the barony. But by the Saints,