You would think Kiri had no reason to run away. Her parents let her read all the books on herbal medicine she wanted. Her mother taught her how to pick locks and fix clocks. Her father fed her big plates of vegetables, and little cups of ice cream. Both of her parents loved her and her little sister dearly, so when Kiri left, they could not understand what they had done wrong.

The storygiver came through town each year. This year, he arrived on Kiri's twentieth birthday. That morning she ate the birthday cupcake her father always baked for her, then ran into town to see the storyteller. He sat in a field between two shops. When she arrived, there was already a crowd of children around him. Kiri noticed it was much smaller than usual. It had to do with the sickness that was going around, she was sure of it. The early signs started when a child was about ten, and by the time they were fifteen, they could hardly move because of the pain. Parents of the diseased children traveled from town to town, searching desperately for a cure. They usually never came back.

Kiri grew up reading about medicinal herbs and still spent most of her time reading about them. When their neighbor's child grew ill, several times Kiri recommended the herbs that she thought would help, but nothing worked.

The storygiver moved around the crowd in a circle. Kiri, having grown quite tall, stood in the back. She was the only one tall enough who needed to. The storygiver whispered a story to each child. Some of them he spent longer with, some shorter. Kiri clasped her hands in front of her while she waited. The breeze blew a black curl into her eye and she quickly brushed it away. When she looked up, the storygiver stood in front of her. His eyes were a darker brown than Kiri's and reminded her of a deep forest.

"Once," said the storygiver, "there was a rich boy who lost his family. Not knowing what else to do, the boy left his mansion and started to walk to the moon. Along the way, he found three silver coins and met a young woman. She was empathetic and taught him the spell he would need to speak to the moon. But she warned him to not let go of his three coins. He said goodbye to her, and continued on his way. He walked until his shoes became so worn they became nothing but scraps of leather. He walked until he grew into a young man. He walked until he was so close to the moon he could not stand her bright light. And then he spoke to her."

Kiri waited. A few children around her began to fidget, plucking up strands of grass. "What did she say?"

"That's for you to find out." The storygiver smiled and stepped to the next child.

Kiri frowned down at her feet on the walk back home. That was not a complete story at all! Did she no longer get one because she was no longer a child? That hardly seemed fair, it was not her fault that most adults never came to the storygiver.

At home, Kiri's main chores consisted of caring for her pigs. Kiri usually savored her time bringing in fresh straw and new toys for them to play with. But today the disappointment of not receiving a proper story dragged against her arms like quicksand. She dropped the pitchfork once she finished and went inside.

"Ki!" Kiri's little sister, Juniper, ran over to her and tugged on her trousers. "I made a new picture for you!" Kiri let Juniper guide her to their room, where sheets of paper lay like melted feathers over the floor. Most of the drawings featured their parents and Kiri, but there were a few of Amaranth, Kiri's piglet. Juniper held up a piece of paper and bounced around her. "That's you and that's me and that's Amaranth! And the tree!"

Kiri smiled down at the drawing, which featured the tree she and Juniper always sat under. "Very nice! I like how bright the leaves are." Juniper hugged her for a moment, then she was off again, running to the kitchen to get more paper.

"Can you hand me the green?" Juniper asked, after a few hours of coloring. Kiri glanced up from her drawing of Amaranth and held out the green stick of wax. As Juniper reached for it, her shirtsleeve slid up, revealing a faint silver patch on her skin. Kiri wouldn't have seen it if it hadn't been for the light. It was a few shades lighter than Juniper's skin and was translucent, except around the edges. Like dried glue, if glue was silver. Kiri dropped the green wax. Juniper looked up at her, frowning. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, sweetie." Kiri picked the wax back up and began to sketch.

She colored with Juniper until it was time for dinner. Later, as she helped Juniper get ready for bed, all she could see was the beginning of the silver mark and what it meant.

Juniper had the disease.

That night, Kiri listened to Juniper's deep breathing. Her little sister had fallen asleep within moments. In a year, Juniper would be in too much pain to sleep easily. She wouldn't even be able to get ready for bed herself, she wouldn't be able to get into bed.

Kiri sat up. There had to be a cure somewhere out there. Kiri hadn't been farther than the edge of town, when she went with her father to get fresh vegetables. But she had to do something. For Juniper, for all of the other children suffering.

The stone floor was cool on her feet. She paused by Juniper's cot. Her mouth was wide open and she was snoring loudly. Kiri pressed a kiss to her forehead and stepped out of the room, retrieving her bag by her bed. She stuffed it full of herbs, and after a moment's hesitation, with belladonna. She took her lock picks and her clock repair toolset. She took little food since her parents would need it, and she took her favorite cloak and her favorite boots. Kiri thought of everything she was leaving behind-her sister, her parents, her books...

Kiri passed by her parents' room and didn't look in. If she did, she would never leave. Outside, the chickens slept in their hutch, the cow in her cowshed, and the pigs in their houses. Amaranth would grow up without her.

Wiping tears from her cheeks, Kiri walked to the front gate. She rested her hand on the latch. Her sadness curled up in her throat, tightening until she feared she would never speak again. The grass rustled behind her. Kiri turned and saw a blurry pink and black smudge running towards her.

"Amaranth!" Kiri bent down and lifted the piglet, who oinked and nuzzled her under the chin. Kiri scratched her back, pressing her face against the piglet's warm head. Pigs (and Amaranth especially) were very stubborn. "Well, if you're going to follow me anyway, I might as well carry you." Amaranth gave her a look that said, That's right.

Kiri did not look back at her house. She looked ahead and pushed open the gate.