From the rooftop, Makarria could see far beyond where Spearpoint Rock jutted out from the turbulent waters and off into the horizon where the Esterian Ocean and gray sky melded into an imperceptible border. Somewhere beyond the horizon, farther to the south, were the East Islands, and beyond that Makarria could only imagine. Maybe another land where the sun shone every day and a girl could run in the grass and wear a proper dress without having to worry about it being ruined by never-ending ocean squalls. Makarria smiled at the thought of actually being free of the salty air for once. She did love the ocean, especially when sailing with her grandfather, but she would love it a lot more, she decided, if she didn't have to live right next to it.

"Makarria!" her father hollered from where he lay sprawled out a few feet away from her. "Thatch!"

"Sorry," Makarria said, handing him one of the long palm fronds she'd set down on the roof beside her feet. Galen took it from her and threaded it into a gap in the roof where a frond had blown free the night before.

"You're not much help to me up here just staring off into the distance," he said when he was done. "Why don't you go see if your grandfather needs help?"

"Really? You're sure?"

"Yes, go."

"Thanks," she said, turning to tiptoe her way down the pitched roof along one of the main support beams.

Galen watched her leave with a wry expression, wishing he could navigate the roof with such ease. He had to crawl around on all fours in order to spread his weight out along two beams, otherwise, he'd crash right through the roof and into the house below. He'd hoped to teach Makarria to mend the roof on her own, but the girl seemed incapable of keeping her mind on any task for more than a few minutes. It was all well and good for her to daydream while tending to the garden or milking the goats, but it was too dangerous to be absentminded up on the roof. Galen sighed and grabbed the bundle of palm fronds, resigned to doing the job himself.

Back on the ground, Makarria raced from the house and down the grassy slope to the seashore where her Grandpa Parmo was pushing a skiff into the water.

"Wait, Grampy, wait!" she yelled after him, and he halted, knee-deep in the waves, until she got there.

"In you go," he said, giving her a boost into the boat. "You going to help me pull in the traps?"

"Yep."

"Hold on, then," he told her and pushed them off with the outgoing surf, timing it so as to pass between two breaking waves. He pulled himself aboard with a grunt and paddled them out past the breakers, then gave her the signal to hoist the small sail as he put aside the oars and grabbed hold of the rudder. Within a few moments, he had angled the skiff to catch the wind and they were racing toward Spearpoint Rock and their traps. "That's better," Parmo said, breathing heavily. "I'm getting too old to be launching skiffs from the beach."

"You're not too old, Grampy," Makarria assured him, smiling as the wind whipped her walnut hair across her face.

"If you say so," he replied, unconvinced. "How are you feeling? Is your tummy ache better from yesterday?"

"Yeah, mostly better, but Mother thinks I was pretending so I wouldn't have to do my chores."

"Nonsense," Parmo said with a wave of his free hand. "You may be absentminded at times, but you're no liar—that I'm certain of. Your mother is just worried. She's had a lot on her mind."

"Like what?"

"Nothing that need concern you for the time being. You just mind your parents and try to pay better attention to your chores. No more daydreaming."

"I know," Makarria said. "It's just that chores are so boring. Except for helping you pull in the traps, of course."

"Of course," Parmo agreed with a smile. "Ready the pole-hook and prepare to drop sail, First Mate."

They were nearing the first of their buoys, some thirty fathoms out from the leeward side of Spearpoint Rock. The red-painted coconut bobbed up and down on the rolling waves, functioning both as the marker for their traps and the hooking point for dragging the traps up from the water. Parmo steered them toward it and signaled for Makarria to drop the sail. As they slowed and drifted alongside the buoy, he threw the rudder to the side and they came to a near stop no more than a fathom out from the buoy.

"Pull her up," Parmo said. "Let's see what we've caught."

Makarria reached out with the pole-hook and looped it around the line receding beneath the buoy. When she tugged, though, the skiff moved more than the buoy line. "It's snagged on something," Makarria said, leaning out over the portside of the skiff to get a better hook on it.

"Careful now," Parmo warned.

"I've got it," Makarria said, but as she reached farther out she got the sudden sensation she was wetting herself, and in a panic she lost her balance. She dropped the pole-hook with a scream and toppled face first overboard. The water was shockingly cold, knocking all the air from her lungs and sending her into a panic to reach the surface. She had not sunk far, though, and she surfaced almost immediately, embarrassing herself by how loudly she gasped for air.

"Quit flopping around like a fish and grab my hand," her grandpa yelled. She took his hand, and he yanked her up over the side rail to plop on the deck. "Are you alright?" he asked, calm but breathing more heavily than she was.

"I think so," Makarria replied, but she wasn't certain. She was wet and cold, for sure, but it was something else. She felt like she was uncontrollably peeing in her britches but not exactly.

"What have you done, cut yourself?" Parmo asked.

Makarria followed his glance downward and saw that bloody water was indeed running down her legs where her short breeches ended above the knees. She ran her hands over her thighs; she didn't feel any cuts or pain, but when she looked at her hands they were covered in diluted blood.

"I, I don't think so," Makarria said, confused. "I don't feel any cuts. I..."

"Oh," Parmo said, with sudden understanding.

"What?"

"It's your first moonblood, Makarria."

"What!" Makarria jumped to her feet, covered herself, then spun around, only to find she had nowhere to go.

"Relax, it's fine," her grandpa said. "Just sit down. I'll take you home."

"I'm sorry, Grampy," Makarria said, too embarrassed to look at him.

"There's nothing to be sorry about. It's perfectly normal."

"But what about the traps?" she asked, now worried she'd ruined his chores.

"They'll still be here when I come back," he assured her. "But I'll never hear the end of it from your mother if I don't get you home and into her care straight away."

~~~~

"I'm fine, really," Makarria insisted. "I don't need to go to bed yet."

Her mother was having none of it, and she tucked the sleeping furs tighter around Makarria. "It's not your moonblood that concerns me, it's that spill you took into the water. It's too late in the year to be swimming."

"I didn't do it on purpose, Mother."

"That's not what I'm saying," Prisca said, "and that's hardly the point, now is it?"

"No."

"Quit fussing like a little girl then. You're a woman now."

Makarria rolled her eyes. "What sort of woman gets tucked into bed by her mother when she's not even tired?"

"That's enough. I'll send in your grandfather. He wants to talk to you before you go to sleep."

"No!" Makarria said, louder than she intended to.

"Quit being silly," her mother chided. "He's a grown man, and he was married to a woman once, you know? I wasn't hatched from an egg. I did have a mother. And your grandfather was there when I had my first moonblood. It's nothing to be embarrassed about. It's part of being a woman. Besides, that's not what he wants to talk to you about, I'm sure."

Makarria only nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Her mother kissed her on the forehead and left. A few moments later, Parmo stepped through the curtains and sat at the foot of her sleeping pad.

"How do you feel?"

"Fine."

Parmo nodded. "It's early still, and I thought you might like some company. Maybe a story or two? Unless you're too tired. Or too old for stories now."

Makarria couldn't help but grin. "I would like a story very much, but I want a real story this time, Grampy. No more of your nursery tales about mermen and talking whales."

"But those are real stories," he complained.

"I want to hear a story about something that really happened."

"Such as?"

"I don't know. Tell me about the Kingdom of Valaróz. Mother said you used to live there."

Parmo closed his eyes for a moment and nodded. "Indeed, many, many years ago."

"What was it like?"

"Well," Parmo began, "I'm sure it's much different now, but in my time Sol Valaróz was the greatest city in the Five Kingdoms. Some might disagree, but to me it was the finest place a boy could grow up. Castle Valaróz was nearly a city unto itself, made entirely of white marble mined in the high mountains to the north. When the sun rose over the Sol Sea, the entire city glimmered like a jewel. And the food, let me tell you. The waters are warmer there than they are here, and the fishermen would bring in all sorts of delicacies. Flying fish, swordfish, and clams, and squid, and octopus, and shrimp. The street vendors would chop them up, skewer them, and cook them seasoned with ground peppers and scallions grown in the terraced fields to the west.

"The fields were as much a marvel of human ingenuity as the castle and older, too. Legend holds that the terraces were already there when Sargoth Lightbringer crossed the Spine into the new world. Mile after mile of stone retaining walls, and the irrigation canals, so complex yet simple at the same time, relying only on gravity to feed themselves from the River Valaróz ten leagues upstream. Sol Valaróz was the first city Sargoth Lightbringer conquered, with the help of the mighty stormbringer Vala, of course. Valaróz became the first of the Five Kingdoms, Vala the first queen. From there, Sargoth Lightbringer and the other sorcerers moved east toward what is now Pyrthinia, but Vala stayed, and of all the Old World sorcerers, she had the most respect for the people and culture she came to rule. It's evident in the architecture of the buildings, in the food, the festival days, and even the clothes people wear. Apart from some of the tribal villages in Norg to the far north, none of the other Five Kingdoms retained so much of the culture from the indigenous peoples as Valaróz...."

Parmo glanced down and saw that Makarria's eyes were already wavering closed. "It seems you were more tired than you thought," he said softly. "Or perhaps my history lesson was too boring."

Makarria muttered something unintelligible, too far gone to fight off her slumber. Parmo sat there for a moment longer, letting himself remember the blue waters of the Sol Sea where he'd learned to sail as a boy. It had been a long time since he'd allowed himself to think of it. With a sigh, he stood to leave, but the air caught in his throat, and he felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. A breeze inexplicably ruffled his hair and tunic and the curtains around him. Has someone opened the front door? He sat back down, thinking for a moment he must be ill, but then Makarria muttered something in her sleep again, and Parmo yanked her sleeping furs away to see that her sleeping gown was shimmering, halfway transformed into a blue dress.

"Makarria," he wheezed, shaking her by the shoulders.

Makarria's eyes batted open and the dress disappeared, once again a sleeping gown.

"Grampy?" Makarria asked, confused.

"No more dresses tonight," Parmo whispered. "No more dreams. Push them away."

"No more dreams," Makarria repeated, already half-asleep again. "No more dreams."

Parmo—still short of breath and lightheaded—watched her drift back to sleep, then pulled the sleeping furs back over her and straightened his hair. He'd have to tell Prisca and Galen. They wouldn't be happy, but there was nothing for it. He cursed himself for a fool. There was no more pretending anymore. Not for any of them. Makarria's power was here to stay, moonblood or not.