I've never enjoyed market day.

Actually, that's not entirely true. I've always loved the concept of market day—the quiet, tense anticipation, the younger children doing extra jobs to save up money for knickknacks and baked goods, the way the community bonds as tables are set up and covered with goods. I like the preparation, the Before. The During is what I dislike.

This day was no different. Everything was loud, abrasive. Children shrieked in delight and anger. Adults haggled over prices, talked with each other, laughed politely and not-so-politely at things their friends said.

I don't like overwhelming noise now, and I didn't then either. I winced as I walked through the streets. I flinched when my parents' friends loudly greeted me, sometimes insisting on pulling me into tight, bone-crushing hugs. I jumped each time I heard a kid screech. My instincts told me to run back to my house and huddle under the covers, but I knew my Mam would be mad at me if I did. She always talked about getting past my shyness, working it out like it was a sickness and not just a part of me.

If only she could understand. But she never bothered to try.

I was on a mission that day. She'd sent me to buy potatoes—as big a bag as possible. She'd given me two beautifully shiny copper coins to pay with. Pride filled me, buzzing through my limbs as I pushed through the crowd, looking for the coveted vegetable. I wanted to get it as cheap as possible. If there was money left, I could get myself a treat—a tart or a sticky bun from the bakery.

I finally spotted a table selling potatoes. They were nice and big, piled in large sacks. Perfect. I squeezed between two tall women in the midst of a gardening conversation and sauntered slowly over to the table.

Then I saw who sat behind it.

Bran.

It was three years since the headband incident, and while I had certainly tried, I hadn't been able to summon any more deathbirds. Bran's wariness had faded until it had turned into something else: unbridled malice.

He looked up, and his grey eyes caught mine. Surprise flashed in them for a moment; then he smiled, looked at the bags of potatoes, and turned back to me, mouthing something.

"Make me an offer."

So that's what he wanted. A challenge. I could do that—even more importantly, I wanted to do it. I strode purposefully toward the table.

"I'll give you half a copper for a bag."

He looked up at me from his seat, a pained expression on his face. "Fyra," he said. "Half a copper?"

"That's what I said."

"Do you not know what quality potatoes look like?"

I crossed my arms and glared at him. "Actually, I do. And those aren't them."

His eyes flicked down to the coins in my hand, and he said, "Three coppers. They're worth four, but seeing as you're poor..."

We weren't poor. Mam preferred to save money rather than spend it, and as a result, we didn't get new things until our old ones were threadbare, but that wasn't poverty. That was wisdom. When things went wrong, we were prepared. And things often went wrong, because our town was cursed.

When Bran said we were poor, I wanted to punch him in the face—but I didn't. I wouldn't let him get to me.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I said. "At the most, those potatoes are worth a copper. That's all."

"Two coppers. Last offer."

I shrugged and turned to walk away. When Bran was working at the table, his parents allowed him to keep a quarter of what he made. The more he made, the more he got. He wanted to make as much as possible.

"Wait."

I turned on my heel, quirking an eyebrow upwards in an expression I'd been practicing in the mirror for years.

He tried his best to hide his annoyance, but I saw the way his shoulders dropped subtly down as he sighed. "A copper and a half."

"One. Copper."

"Sold," he said, holding his hand out. I slapped the copper into it.

A smile settled on my face as I picked out my bag of potatoes. I nodded a cheeky goodbye to Bran and turned to leave, but he stuck his foot out, and I tripped. The bag split. Potatoes rolled everywhere. One was stepped on by a passerby. Another two rolled into a deep mud puddle, which they did not emerge from.

Heat rushed to my face. I scrambled to gather up the potatoes, which were now in varying states of grubbiness.

"Next time, watch where you step," said Bran.

I turned toward him, ready to attack, make him pay for the dig. Then I heard the cry that suddenly arose in the streets.

"Magic storm! Watch out!"

Magic storms were part of the curse on our town—the reason Mam saved every bit of money she got. They'd sweep through, leaving nothing in their path but rubble and broken bodies, changing people into things they were not: tables, statues, and sometimes chickens.

I whirled around. This storm was dead silent, made of bright blue sparks and ribbons of lightning. It was coming straight toward our table.

I grabbed my potatoes and sprinted to a safe distance, then turned to watch. Bran still sat at the table. He stared at the storm, frowning, one hand raised forward as though he wanted to touch it. What was he thinking? People were yelling now—screaming at him to get out of there, to run for his life. He didn't move. Idiot. He was going to die.

His frown changed to an expression of terror. He stood, started to run, tripped over a sack of potatoes. His ankle twisted in an unnatural direction.

"Bran!" his mother screamed. "Hurry!"

I hated him. He'd bullied me for most of my life, using words, force—anything, as long as it twisted deep. But I knew I couldn't let him die. He was a kid. Just like me.

"Idiot," I muttered under my breath. I dropped my potatoes and ran toward the storm.

I still don't know why I was so quick to risk my life for Bran. Maybe I wanted to feel above him—better than him. Or maybe my bond with the deathbirds had made it so I too could sense whether Death was close by.

Either way, the look on Bran's face when I hauled him to his feet was priceless.

"Fyra?" he said. "What are you doing?"

I ignored him, busy draping his arm over my shoulder. He was heavy. Too heavy. We were moving slowly, while the magic storm—unencumbered by a twisted ankle—came steadily closer. Bran's hand clenched painfully tight on my shoulder.

"Do something," he said.

"What am I supposed to do?" I snapped. "Walk faster!"

But he couldn't. I could see that each step pained him, even if he was trying his best to disguise it. We weren't going to make it.

Bran closed his eyes.

For a moment, the storm faltered, spinning back on itself as though hesitating. Then Bran went limp in my arms. The storm continued forward.

I wanted to scream for help, but my mouth refused to cooperate. Terror flowed through me.

We are coming.

A strange voice, deep inside my head. A familiar voice. The deathbirds. Three of them shot straight toward us, two grabbing my arms and pulling me to the side, another frantically attempting to lift Bran off the ground. There were two more on the way, but I knew they wouldn't make it in time. The last deathbird realized it too. It dropped Bran and flapped out of the path of the storm.

It had all been for nothing.

And then I heard the sound of a jig being played on the violin. It began light and airy, but slid downward, deep, powerful. People froze. My deathbirds froze. The magic storm froze.

Lark Ellins. Her hair was a dirty blond, her figure willow-thin and tall. She stepped carefully through the enraptured crowd, her bow dancing across the strings, weaving the music that held the storm at bay. She wasn't my friend, but we'd spoken a bit. She'd seemed nice.

So she was a Blessed. Just like me.

I moved forward to grab Bran, but my deathbirds held me back.

Too dangerous, they said. He can take care of it.

That couldn't be right. Bran was in no position to take care of anything. But, in a moment, I saw what they meant. A boy was behind Lark, following her toward the storm. He held a pen in his hand. When they stopped next to Bran, he began to draw something on his arm. He touched his finger to the something, and it slithered to the ground, quickly turning real. He pulled Bran onto it, and I saw what it was: a sled.

Once Bran and the boy were clear, Lark stopped playing. Her legs were shaking. She'd probably never used her Blessing that much before, and it had taken a toll on her.

With the music gone, the storm began to move again. People began to move again.

"Blesseds," they whispered. "They're all Blesseds."

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