The freezing wind blew without rest, chasing murky clouds from the forest toward the moon. Meya considered herself resistant to cold, but tonight's wind chilled her to the bone.

The bandits had spread out in a loose circle, patrolling with either clubs or swords. Gillian and Dockar were deep in discussion above their map.

Meya eyed them in silence as her hands twitched behind her back. The icy, tiny blade burned her sweaty palm as she forced her frigid, tired fingers to find purchase and wiggled her wrist, sawing against the thick rope binding Zier's hands.

Judging by the moon's position and her sense of passing time, Meya guessed about two hours had passed since Gillian sent Jerald and the servants off with his ransom demand. It probably took half an hour to get to the castle from the forest and another half through the forest to this moorland. Coris should be arriving soon. If he was coming for them, that was.

Biting her lip against the wave of fear, Meya concentrated on the task at hand, though she still couldn't understand why in the three lands she was even bothering. First, she wasn't counting on Coris coming to rescue them. Second, she and Arinel were almost free, if not counting the rope tying them to the boulder, but even that was loose enough to wriggle out of.

For lack of a better euphemism, Meya had large lady pillows. She simply needed to recline a little, stick her bound hands up high on her back and draw in the deepest breath she could hold when the bandits tied the three of them to the boulder.

She was only waiting for that sluggish storm cloud to move over the moon and blot out its light. It would give her that one opening when she could slide off these ropes and escape with Arinel.

So, why was she risking her chance by sawing Zier's ropes? What good would it bring? He was sleeping like dead. Running off on her own was hard enough without dragging along a boy almost twice her size.

Yet, the wind still hadn't done its job, and Meya had nothing else to occupy her wait. Focusing all her being on sawing Zier's rope provided a much-needed outlet for the boiling emotions that threatened to drive her insane with every minute that dragged past.

"So...is it true that you stole The Song of May Day?"

Arinel's voice penetrated the silence. The same old pang of pain seared against the scabbing wound in Meya's heart. Although it was that one question hurled at her all her life, the pain didn't dull with time as she'd liked to hope. Meya's grip on the brooch knife trembled. She clenched her fingers so she wouldn't drop it.

" 'Tis been what? An hour? That's what you came up with?" She spat, hacking at the ropes with renewed vigor,

"We're about to die here, and you just had to bring it up so I'll have it on me mind when I kick the bucket? What, a flogging and the bridle not enough to satisfy your sadistic urges?"

Meya snarled, exasperated, tugging against the stubborn rope with her minuscule knife. She regretted bringing up the town square flogging. That was uncalled for. And it only served to make her feel worse.

Arinel was silent for a beat before she retorted, her voice cold as the wind,

"I ask because Crosset needs to know if we'll ever get back our Song. Our crops haven't been doing well since the Famine—caused by you, in case you've forgotten. We could use a boost from tourism."

Meya hitched up a savage smirk. If Freda would be offended enough by one cross-dressing lass working in the fields to strike a whole manor with famine, there'd be a disaster striking every other damn day all over Latakia with all the killing, cheating, thieving, raping and who knows what else going on.

"No, I didnae steal it. I destroyed it." She answered Arinel's glare with an insolent shrug,

"I dun have the Song with me. The whole town knows I can't carry a tune any more than me sow can carry a truffle and dun swallow. Sorry, me mother ain't getting her Song back even after I rot."

Meya turned away and resumed sawing. Arinel's narrowed eyes remained on her, so she willed her face to stay blank.

"Are you sure? There are rumors." The Lady argued airily. Behind her lips, Meya gritted her teeth.

"Every rainy night, sharp ears would catch a Song drifting from deep within the forest. A Song couldn't just sing itself. You couldn't have buried it somewhere then expect it to come to life, could you?"

Meya shrugged, unperturbed,

"Could be one of me two big sisters. They're born before I bungled me mother's voice." She kept the conversation going to mask the sound of her sawing, " 'Tis them training in the forest, mayhaps."

Meya strived to remain deadpan, but she laughed herself hoarse inside. Anyone who knew Marin and Morel at all wouldn't buy one blob of that swine dung. Ironically though, they'd be pacified if Friar Tumney said they were probably imagining things amid the howling wind and pelting rain.

"Is that so?" Arinel mused. Meya snapped out of her gleeful reverie.

"Marin, locked indoors all hours of the day? Morel, never once stepping away from the hearth? Venture into the forest on a stormy night?"

The casual revelation struck Meya dumb like a bolt out of the blue. She jolted so hard that she almost cut herself with the little knife. Lady Arinel—the lady of Crosset, sitting there analyzing Meya's sisters? It wasn't possible. It just couldn't be.

Meya turned slowly back towards her lady, eyes wide and fearful. How long had they been watching her family? And for what?

"How come you know so much about me sisters?" She hissed, "The Hilds are nobody. Why d'you even care?"

"The Hilds aren't nobody. Your father happens to be married to Alanna Clariden of Noxx, who owned one of the most beautiful voices in Latakia," said Arinel coldly,

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"Father told me before she lost her voice, we held the May Fest out on the hills—that many people came from all over Latakia to hear her sing."

"Look what's left now. We barely needed the town square for all the young people we have. Of course, we keep an eye on Alanna's daughters to see if any of them showed signs of inheriting her Song. Especially you, Meya."

Arinel pinned her with her sharp blue eyes. Meya glowered at the ground. Shame burned hot on her cheeks as her heart drummed, every throb painful as the next.

That Song was nothing but misery. A curse. From the very beginning.

"Why else do you think Father spared your life when you tainted our wheat?" Arinel whispered through gritted teeth with thinly veiled resentment,

"Father meant to make Alanna his mistress, but she begged for freedom in exchange for her singing for him whenever he so wished, and he gave in."

Meya stared, speechless. Arinel lost her aloof cool with every syllable, her breath coming in short, choppy huffs as she unleased a fiery tirade,

"That's just how much he enjoyed her Song. And for seventeen years, he hasn't heard it. And now that he's dying, the only person who could give him what he misses most—is sitting right here—before me—ready to die with it out of sheer spite!"

Silence fell, ringing with her outburst. Meya blinked in disbelief as Arinel panted, their eyes locked, icy blue against blazing emerald. Catching herself, Arinel broke away in shame.

"Oh, Freda. I'm sorry. Please forget what I said. It's just—I've lost so many of my family." She stammered, sniffling back tears. Gathering herself, she turned around to face Meya,

"I know what my father did was unforgivable—I apologize. I know the way Crosset treated you was unfair, but you risked a famine befalling us just so you can earn some gold. For many, it's not the result that matters, Meya. It's your selfishness."

Meya lowered her eyes. Arinel was both right and wrong. She hated pretty much everyone—except maybe Friar Tumney, Old Silma, Deke and Draken. Still, she hadn't meant to bring about a famine when she disguised herself as the then-underage Marcus to work in the fields.

She didn't believe it would be such a big deal with Freda. All she wanted was for Dad to smile and pat her head or hug her like he did to Maro when he brought home gold and wheat—to Marin when he woke up to her looking prettier than the day before—to Morel when she welcomed him home with a scrumptious meal—and to Marcus, Myron and Mistral for nothing in particular.

And for that, Marquess Crosset had her chained and flogged with her head locked in a bridle. She swore then that she'd never forgive him.

Yet, Arinel was there that day, too. And she'd just apologized. Something that had never happened to Meya in Crosset.

"If this is your revenge, Meya, I'd say it's your right." Arinel hung her head with a sigh and closed her eyes in resignation. Meya studied her, uncertain. An idea took shape in her head, but she wasn't sure if it was good.

"None of us certainly deserved to hear your Song. But wouldn't it be better, for you, if you shared it with your family, with Crosset, with Latakia? Just like your mother did?"

"And what if I lose it like me mother did? Then I'd become like her? Forgotten? Left behind in a crumbling mud cottage for the rest of her days?" Meya retorted, glaring at the nonplussed Arinel,

"You said your father loves her Song. Where was he during the Famine when me mother was starving herself half-dead keeping seven children alive?"

"You're right. He was in Icemeet. He forsook her. I'm so sorry." Arinel dipped her head in shame. Meya froze, surprised. The Lady resurfaced with a plea,

"But while he was in Crosset, he often offered Alanna gold and land, Meya, but your parents never accepted what isn't rightfully earned. You of all people should know."

Meya blinked, taken aback. Sighing, she grumbled, disgruntled with the lady's excessive knowledge and Mum and Dad's stupid pride,

"You know about the Ice Pillory, too?"

"Everybody knows. You're the nightmare of every mother with a daughter."

Arinel sounded like she would've shrugged if she weren't a noble lady. Meya snorted and nodded in surrender. As darkness crept over her, she glanced at the sky. The cloud sheet had edged tantalizingly close to the moon.

Meya nudged Arinel to signal the time was near, heaving a weary sigh.

"I like to think that—that I can be more than just me mother's Song."

She confessed, her voice low and shaking as she mulled over her life until now. In time, she'd hoped she'd find something to call her own, master it and show it to Dad while he was still alive, but it seemed seventeen years wasn't enough for her incompetent bum to achieve such a thing. And, depending on tonight's outcome, that might be all the time she'd ever get from Freda.

"It's your Song now, Meya," said Arinel softly. Meya whipped around, confused. Arinel held her gaze firm, "If you don't let it define you, then it won't. So, why are you so afraid?"

Meya couldn't reply. Arinel sighed and gazed off ahead, her eyes following the bandits pacing before them. She glanced at Gillian and Dockar. Seeing them still absorbed in the map, she whispered,

"I've kept a terrible secret from my father for years. The truth might give him peace, but I can't tell him. It's a torture, watching him suffer."

Bells rang in Meya's head. Was the secret Lord Crosset was dying to know—figuratively, of course—about his missing son? Arinel's older brother the Hadrians often mentioned—Sir Klythe?

Meya also remembered Dad—how much he loved Mum, how much he resented Meya for taking her Song. Would she ever have a chance to give it back to him? Should she?

"I'm just wondering—wouldn't it be better if you'd just—set your Song free. If not for your father, then for yourself."

Arinel fell silent, her face flat and unreadable as ever in the falling shadow, but her eyes were filled with fear. Not a desperate, terrified panic, but regretful, mourning, full of pain.

There was nothing Meya could do to help Arinel with her dying father, but there was time for one more thing. The cloud's shadow hadn't covered Gillian and Dockar whole. If all went well, this could give them a smoother escape.

Here we go, Mum. Time to see if you're ballyhoo or the real deal.

The tiny blade sliced through the last fibers of Zier's rope. Meya hadn't prepared for the impact. She dropped the knife. Cursing her butterfingers, she shook her head and whispered into the lady's ear.

"They say Mum's Song can charm birds, beasts and barbaric men. Is there any song you want to hear, right now?"

Arinel looked as if she'd been turned to stone. She turned around. Seeing Meya's confidence, she whispered,

"Over The Peaks of Neverend Heights."

A famous folk lullaby. Meya nodded and glanced at Gillian. The head bandit and his trusted adviser were no longer poring over their map but staring at the sky. Soon, they'd notice the opportunistic window the total darkness provided and light a lamp or something. She must act—fast.

A gust of wind lambasted them. Thick clouds swallowed the last sliver of the moon and its light. It was time.

"Dun listen. Pinch your butt hard. Or something."

Meya whispered. Grabbing Arinel's arm, she filled her lungs and bowels, hoped for the best, then released the air through her lips with the Song she'd kept repressed for so long,

"Over the peaks of Neverend Heights,

Where birds of a feather they circle up high."

When Meya paused for breath, silence and stillness fell on the clearing as if time had stopped to listen. All the bandits stopped pacing and fidgeting as one. She raised her voice and sang louder.

"I'll fly like an eagle, so graceful and proud.

I'll fly like a dove, so gentle and free.

I'll whisper in your ear and wake you come morn.

I'll sing you to slumber and see you in your dreams."

"Go!"

Meya pulled herself from the maelstrom of emotions back to reality. The darkness was complete. She slid out of the ropes, yanked Arinel to her feet, then sprinted blindly into the gloom.

Their feet stamped noisily on the high grass. The charm would wear off in a few moments. Their best chance of survival was to put as much distance between them and the bandits as possible before—

"Argh!"

Meya's foot collided with something rock-hard. She tumbled headfirst to the ground, dragging Arinel with her. Her little yelp broke the spell, and Gillian's voice turned Meya's blood into ice,

"Southside! After them!"

Before Meya could even think of getting up, somethings whooshed past her up the hill with light, nimble feet. Screams of pain and terror rented the darkness along with wolfish barks and growls.