"Grandmother," the little girl said. "Do you think he'll come to see me this year?"

Alma put down the cup of tea she'd been drinking, yesterday's teabags, and looked up at Bree. Such a young thing. Only eight this year and so sensitive.

That was what she called her; sensitive. Unlike so many, she was connected to the wider world, the animals, the plants, the subtle vibration of a land teeming with magic.

And yet it was so rare to find in humans, magic. Only a select few were lucky enough to have it. Or unlucky enough.

"I'm not sure," she said to Bree. "I think he's been traveling. I haven't seen him in the market."

It was true; she hadn't seen him.

But Bree had.

"He was there," she said. "I saw him yesterday on my way back from school." Her face, having been hopeful a moment before, fell as she thought about it. She hadn't had the nerve to walk up to him. She was still so small, and he was so tall, as tall as a giant.

Alma sighed. It would have been so much easier if he'd just stayed away entirely. Now the girl would know that he'd put his own needs before hers. Whatever those needs were. Brew. Money. Distance.

Egan was Alma's only child. She'd watched him shatter the day Bree was born, the day Alina had died before she'd even had a chance to hold the child in her arms. It had been Alma who'd taken tiny Bree to see her father and to tell him the news about what had happened.

She'd regretted bringing the baby to him first; he'd instantly had something, someone, to blame for a loss so tragic. Alina had been so young, and their love had still been fresh. His wounds were fresh, too, not to be healed by time or magic.

He'd brushed past her, past Bree, as he ran into the bedroom where the midwife was cleaning up. Alma remembered him screaming with agony, begging, pleading for Alina to come back to him.

But her magic was spent, used up on making sure the child had a chance to survive. Alma had watched her face, had seen her eyes as she birthed Bree, and she knew. She knew she was dying, and maybe it was this knowledge, this effort to pass along her gift, that had ensured the child would not only be magical but exceptional.

"Well, I don't know about Egan," Alma said. "But I did find something in the market just for you. Maybe even better than a day with your father."

"Better than Egan?" Bree asked, her voice a whisper. Her legs were still so little that she could swing them back and forth as she sat in her chair, too short for her bare, dirty feet to reach the dusty floor.

Alma stood up and walked across the room to her bag, a market sack to fill with bread and cheese. How often it was empty. But not today. Not this birthday. She dug her hand into the bag, and her fingers gripped the fruit. She pulled it out and hid it behind her back, then walked back to the child.

"Which hand?" she asked.

Bree giggled. She loved this game.

"That one," she said, pointing to her left.

Alma's hand emerged empty. She made a dramatic face as if she, too, were surprised that she had nothing there.

Bree giggled some more and pointed at the other hand.

But this was where it got tricky because after Alma showed her other hand to be empty, she clapped them together. No fruit.

Bree stared, curious but not yet betrayed. She stood up and walked to Alma. Opening her arms, she wrapped them around her grandmother's middle, and there in the back, tied between the straps of her apron, was the prize. Her little hand gripped onto it and stole it from the ties.

But this was no ordinary gift. No ordinary fruit.

It was an orange.

"Oh, Grandmother!" she exclaimed as she regarded the orange. "How did you get this?"

Alma winked. "Magic," she said.

Bree scoffed; she knew very well that there wasn't an ounce of magic in her grandmother's body. But her smile remained, for, in her hands, she held a treasure so great that she'd never even met someone who'd eaten one before. She might've had fine shoes for the cost of this one, small fruit.

But the fruit was better.

She stared at it, then furrowed her brows.

"How do we eat it?"

She opened her mouth and licked the skin, then pushed the orange away from her, grimacing at the taste of it.

Alma laughed.

"You have to peel it first," she said.

Bree smacked her forehead with one hand, and at that moment, she looked so much older than she really was. She knew about things like humility and patience and pain, things that other children didn't yet know.

"I should've known," she said. She dug her fingernail into the peel and pulled at the skin. "Like this?"

"Yes. But let's take it over to the table. And I'll get a plate so that not a drop is wasted."

Alma watched as Bree carefully peeled away the rind, and she'd been right to get the plate. Juice spurted from the fruit, a drop of it spraying into Bree's eye.

"Ouch!" she said, squinting. She dropped the orange onto the plate, but Alma caught her hands before she had a chance to rub her eyes.

"No!" she said. "It'll be worse if you touch it with your wet hands. Here, take this."

Alma pulled a rag from a pocket in her apron and handed it to her. Bree snatched it and held it to the affected eye. Absently, she put the wet fingers of her other hand into her mouth. The rag fell away, and her smile was as wide as the sunbeam streaming in through the south window.

She was still squinting, but she was on a mission now. She pulled off the rest of the peel and held it out for Alma to inspect.

"How do I eat it?" she asked.

"I don't know, actually," Alma said. "I've never eaten one, myself."

"Really? Well, then we will share it!"

"Oh, don't be silly, child. Today is your day. Now open your mouth and take a big bite. Remember to hold your head over the plate so that you don't lose all the juice."

Bree did as she was instructed and tentatively stuck out her tongue to test it. Then, like a vampire bat, she sunk her teeth into the orange and pulled away with a mouthful of the stuff. Her face was instantly alight with pleasure, the juice running down off her chin and splashing onto the plate.

As she chewed, she inspected the thing. Then, seeing that the fruit had sections, she peeled one off and held it out for Alma.

"Are you sure?" Alma asked.

"Of course I'm sure," she said.

It was Alma's turn to feel like a child, then. She reached out and took the wedge that Bree was holding out for her, held her head over the plate, and popped it into her mouth.

The flavor burst across her tongue, and she found herself smiling as wide as the girl.

They sat like this, passing the orange back and forth between them, sharing it as they did all things.

In what seemed like a very short span of time, the orange was gone. Bree picked up the plate and held it up to her lips, tipping the rest of the juice onto her tongue. Then she sat back and licked every single one of her fingers.

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And so did Alma.

It was over now, though.

"What should we do next?" Bree asked.

Alma was without more surprises, but she didn't think Bree expected much more from her after such a gift.

"Well," Alma said. "The sun is going down. Maybe we should spend the evening on the lake."

Bree's eyes widened. She'd only been out onto the lake once in her life. She'd been five, and Egan had had a good day. A clear day. He'd taken her out, given her a fishing rod, and proceeded to lean back in the boat, tipping his hat over his eyes, to nap in the sun.

Bree had sat there for hours in the burning sun, and soon the skin on her arms and the tip of her nose was an angry shade of red.

"Father," she'd said. "Can we go back now?"

Egan opened an eye.

"Where are the fish?" he'd asked.

"Um … there aren't any fish."

He'd groaned, irritated.

"Well, what are we supposed to eat tonight if you haven't been able to catch any fish? Answer me, girl!"

But she hadn't answered. She was scared, but she was angry, too, and her anger spread out into the tips of her fingers, fingers that held the wooden fishing rod.

It burst from her hands, the wood cracking into a hundred pieces. She'd been surprised by the event; she'd known she had magic in her blood, but they hadn't yet brought her to see Zahn, the head sorcerer in the castle. Until she was trained by him, it was illegal for her to use her magic.

But few were trained by Zahn.

"I'm sorry, Father," she'd said, fat tears threatening. She covered her eyes, unwilling to look into his, praying that he wouldn't hit her or worse, say anything more.

He hadn't hit her, and he hadn't said anything more. Instead, he merely took up the oars and rowed them back to shore. When they got to the dock, he'd walked away from her, leaving her to find her own way home.

And she had. Burnt and hollowed out, she'd gone back home to Alma and told her everything that had happened. Then, safe in her arms, she let her tears fall. She had failed so miserably in her attempt to impress him. She just hadn't been enough.

Alma regarded her now and could see the memory of the event flitting across her little face.

"I don't think I want to go to the lake," Bree said.

"That's just because you've never been there at night," Alma said. "When you go out late, so late that the sun's rays are far, far beneath the horizon, you can see a million stars watching you from above."

"Grandmother, I can see the stars from out my window. How is it different?"

"I'm going to show you," Alma said. "And maybe," she leaned in conspiratorially, "we might even see a star fall."

Bree frowned.

"What's a star fall?" she asked.

Alma laughed.

"It's when a star from above, too tired to continue lighting the sky, falls down to the earth. Behind it, it leaves a trail across the cosmos, one final mark as it burns away to nothing. You won't see that from your window."

She stood up from her chair and went to the little kitchen, wrapping a small, hard loaf of bread into a towel. Then, untying her apron, she crossed the room and picked up her market bag, placing the bread inside. She stripped the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders.

She walked up to Bree and held out her hand.

Bree looked up, wary, and Alma could see that she was sad at the memory of her father.

Every memory of her father, for they were all the same.

But she trusted Alma, and she took her hand and hopped down from the chair. Together, they descended the stairs, and as they went into the open air of the market, the sun was already starting to set. They would have to be quick.

The lake was freshwater, and it bordered not the city but the farmlands. An aqueduct had been constructed ages ago, bringing clean water to the inhabitants of Eagleview Kingdom. Other constructions were used to water the fields that bordered it.

The lake was a gift. That was what Alma had always said. Still, Bree was nervous.

They walked out of the city, which was unprotected against the outer walls of the castle, and into the meadows that surrounded it. It was growing season, and the grass was green and sweet. A band of horses grazed not too far from their path, and Bree watched them as she walked, curious.

"Don't they ever get tired?" she asked Alma.

"Who? The horses?"

"Yes. I see them in the square, and the cobblestones must hurt their feet as they do mine."

Alma smiled, taking out the loaf of bread from the bag. She tore off a piece for Bree and another for herself so that they chewed their dinner as they walked.

"I think the horses probably get as tired as the people do. Though I suspect their hooves are tougher on the cobblestones than your little feet."

"Maybe."

They walked along in silence for a while until they came upon the water. The sun was nearly set, and the ripples twinkled in shades of pink and orange as its last light slipped away.

"It's so sparkly," Bree said, holding one hand to her brow as she regarded the water.

"Come down here," Alma said as she sank into the dirt. "We'll need to wait until the men go."

Bree looked above Alma's head. She could see them, the fishermen, coming in now from a long day working on the water. She searched the men for her father, for Egan. But it was too late and too dark to tell if he was among their numbers.

She wondered if she'd broken his very last fishing rod. Maybe that was why he didn't come around, because of what she'd done.

Eventually, the men moved away, their boats tied up for the night, their catches hanging from wooden bars they held over their shoulders.

The sun was fully down now, and the stars were starting to come out.

Alma stood up and offered her hand to Bree. She looked nervous, but she took it. Together, they slinked through the night toward the dock. Nobody was out now except for the cicadas and bullfrogs singing their evening tunes.

They came to the dock, and with one last look around, Alma released Bree's hand and took off down the wooden ramp, giggling as she went.

Bree paused, looking around hesitantly, then followed cautiously behind.

"Come on, child!" Alma whispered. She already had one foot in a boat, and she waved at Bree to hurry.

A couple of moments later, Bree stood before her grandmother, clearly worried.

For a moment, Alma felt like maybe she'd made a mistake bringing her here. The girl was so scared, and she needn't be.

She sat down in the boat and beckoned Bree to join her. Carefully, methodically, Bree stepped into the boat. It moved with the introduction of her weight, and she nearly yelped with fright. She dropped to the bottom, and the boat stopped rocking.

Alma laughed.

"Here you go," she said, handing Bree an oar.

"What do I do with this?" she asked.

Alma was untying the rope, and then she sat up to show her how to handle the oar in the water. She pushed back from the dock and began rowing away toward the center of the lake.

Though she was armed with an oar, it saw little water. Instead of rowing, she sunk down deep in the boat, too scared to look out at the water.

"Grandmother," she said, her voice panicky. "I don't know how to swim."

Alma stopped rowing for a moment and turned to talk to her.

"I don't know how to swim, either," she said. "In fact, I don't know anyone who knows how to swim! Maybe the fishermen do; I'm not sure. But look around you now." She motioned with her arms up to the sky.

Bree's gaze followed hers up, and she forgot her fear in an instant.

The sky was glowing with starlight, and Alma had been right; this was nothing she could've seen through the little window in their one-room shack.

Bree laid back in the boat, and Alma did the same.

They stayed quiet for a while, just gazing up at the sky. Waiting for a star to fall.

"Grandmother," Bree said. "When will we see one?"

"Oh, anytime now."

But the stars were stubborn, absolutely refusing to fall. Alma spread the blanket over the both of them as the night grew chilly.

Yet the stars were still stuck firmly in the sky.

This trip was nothing like the one she'd had with her father. She and Alma snuggled up together, rocked by the ripples of the lake.

And then, at long last, one fell.

"Whoaaa! Grandmother! Do you see?"

A long arc of white was painted across the black of the sky as the star, impossibly bright, fell to its end.

"I do see," Alma said.

Bree sat up in the boat.

"I want to see more of them."

"Make your own, then," Alma said. And suddenly, she knew how to best end their night on the lake. To end the best birthday she'd ever had.

A challenge.

"You know how to do it," Alma said, and she sat up next to her in the boat. "Raise your arms up and make them fly!"

Bree, full of doubt, looked up at the sky.

She wanted to see the light show again. She wanted a star to fall all the way down. Maybe it would be so small when it got there that she could carry it around and tell everyone she had a star in her pocket.

She looked down at Alma. Then, slowly, she raised her arms up above her head.

"I want to see it fall."

She closed her eyes.

"I want to see it fall."

She wasn't entirely sure what to do, but a moment later, flashes of light across her vision led her to open her eyes.

Slowly, silently, drops of light were rising from her fingertips. She tried moving her arms around, and several more droplets dripped from her fingers like water.

She shot her hands up above her head, and a great wave of light radiated up into the sky.

Alma gasped, holding her hand to her chest.

She'd known that Bree had magic, that maybe she even had more magic than many, even most. But the cascade of light that was pouring down upon them now was beyond anything she'd thought possible of her before.

Bree stood up in the boat and began to wave her arms gently around and around. The droplets continued to flow, though slower and slower.

Bree was tiring, and she inherently knew she would have to stop soon. One couldn't pour magic from her fingertips forever.

When she'd finally had enough, when the dance was done, and she had given everything she had over to the magic, she laid down beside Alma. Together they watched as the drops fell, then silently extinguished as they hit the water.

Alma wrapped her arms around Bree and pulled the blanket tight. And together, beneath a sky of ending magic and endless stars, they fell to sleep.

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