“Mirror, Mirror, gift of doom,

Show us Mama in her room.”

Trix giggled. Saturday waited for the image to blur and resolve into a picture of Mama rummaging through her wardrobe, but the mirror did nothing. She wished to see something so hard, her eyes began to hurt. It took her a moment to notice that Trix was no longer interested in the mirror, and another moment to realize what an incredible fool she’d been. She’d said “Mama,” and Trix’s mother was currently dead. It would have been just as easy to say “Papa.” Why hadn’t she done that instead? But it was too late. She almost wished the glass had shown those terrifying floodwaters. Anything but this.

“Gods,” she sputtered, “I’m such an ass.”

Trix left her glaring at herself in the mirror and went back to minding the stewpot. “You tried,” he said. “I appreciate the effort.”

“I only wanted to—”

“Just set the table, Saturday. Please?”

“Okay.” Saturday shoved the offending mirror back into her swordbelt and went to put her stupid, idle hands to work. As she set the bowls and spoons clattering upon the table, she said, “I’m sorry,” before she forgot.

“So am I,” he answered.

Peter returned to the kitchen. Saturday gave him the rest of the spoons and the cloth napkins and a look that explained exactly how far she’d shoved her big foot into her big mouth. He took them all from her without a word and finished setting the table. Saturday and Peter didn’t need words to communicate, but for Trix’s benefit she said, “I’m going to fetch . . .”

She stopped before saying “Mama” and reopening the wound she’d just kicked with her boot. She thought about switching it to “Papa,” and then wondered if Trix knew who his father was . . . or if his father was even human. As there was just no good way to finish the sentence, she fled the room.

She didn’t bother knocking; her parents would have heard her footsteps echoing through the living room and down the small hall. Everything about Saturday was large and loud. Trying to pretend otherwise was a waste of time.

“Dinner’s ready,” she called.

The door opened a crack to reveal Papa’s face. “We’re coming, m’girl. Thank you.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” said Mama, thus effectively tying Saturday’s hands.

The look Saturday gave her father said, There she goes opening her mouth again without thinking. You can’t say I didn’t try.

I know, Papa’s wrinkled forehead said in return. At this point, there’s really nothing any of us can do. “Come now, Seven,” he said to his wife. “I won’t ship that stubborn mouth off in a carriage without kissing it first, and I refuse to do that until it’s been properly fed.”

Mama granted Papa a smirk, only slightly less rare than an actual smile. She tossed whatever garment she was holding onto the bed next to her carpetbag and pushed past him. He patted her shoulder, and then smacked her playfully on the rump. Making Mama smile in earnest was a knack only Papa had. And Thursday . . . not that she’d stuck around long enough to take advantage of it, or teach it to any of her younger siblings. With no other course of action at her disposal, Saturday followed her parents into the kitchen.

The smell hit them before they’d reached the table. Saturday closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Mama’s cooking skills were none too shabby, and the palace cook had presented a scrumptious feast in celebration of Sunday and Rumbold’s royal wedding, but this aroma left those dinners all behind.

Peter was already at the stewpot, helping himself to a generous bowlful. The divine dish was a result of Trix’s stirring, for sure. Saturday snuck a glance at Mama before snatching up her own bowl and following Peter’s suit.

“Go on, girl,” said Mama. “I’m not going to scold your rascal brother. It seems the gods decided we’ve had enough misery for one day.”

At Mama’s blessing, Saturday shamelessly filled her bowl. Mama had always been stingy with ingredients and kept an eye toward portion control, but she’d mothered ten children in her life. The current population of the Woodcutter household was half what it had been in the spring, so the stewpot was nowhere near as overflowing as it once needed to be, but there was still enough inside for each of them to have seconds, if they so desired. Saturday anticipated that desire this evening, and happily.

Only . . . when Saturday sat down at the table her appetite left her, fully and completely.

She waited politely for the rest of her family to serve themselves and sit, though Peter had forgone manners and dug deep into his bowl, as if he’d felled a dozen trees that day and toted them all the way back from the Wood barehanded. The rest of them similarly devoured their bowls, as if they’d been starved for a fortnight.

Saturday filled her spoon with the delectable stew and brought it to her lips, forcing herself to chew and swallow. The tender bits of roast melted on her tongue. There was a hint of wine and cream in the sauce, and the potatoes and onions were cooked to perfection. Saturday didn’t normally like onions, but this was one of the most delicious meals she’d ever eaten. She only wished her body would stop whatever it was doing and behave. Her muscles were tense from her head to her toes, and her face felt flushed; the only cool spot on her skin lay under her sister’s bracelet. When she swallowed the spoonful, it felt like swallowing a rock. Her stomach tightened, and a cold sweat broke out behind her ears. Perhaps she was coming down with something. Couldn’t it wait until she was done with supper?

Mama noticed Saturday playing with her food. “Eat up, girl,” she said. “I’m not going to—”

Papa laid a hand on Mama’s arm before she could finish her sentence, in a subtle effort to force her to think before she spoke. It was obvious that she did not appreciate the gesture.

“Do you think I will be less sad if you starve yourself?” Mama said, turning the second phrase into a question instead of an order. But she had still commanded that Saturday eat, so eat she did, slowly and reluctantly, bit by stony bit, until her spoon scraped the bottom of her bowl.

Papa and Peter quickly jumped up for seconds, but Mama had her elbow on the table and her head in her hand before she came to the end. She set down her spoon and closed her eyes. Papa patted her arm again, but said nothing and continued to eat.

Peter was the second one to fall asleep. He pushed the bowl aside, cradled his head in his elbow, and began to snore. Papa only had time to glance quickly at Saturday and Trix before his own head hit the table. Saturday winced at the sound. Papa’s empty bowl spun around and clattered to the floor.

Saturday’s eyelids drooped. Her stomach spasmed and clenched. The heat spread down from her ears and cheeks. She wanted to move, to leave the table and run, but her body felt like a sack of the rocks she’d just swallowed. Slowly, she turned her head to Trix.

Trix stood and snatched up the rest of their uneaten bread into a small sack.

“What’ve you done?” Saturday managed to say without moving her teeth.

“It’s a sleeping spell, that’s all. You’ll be rested and fine in the morning. Or possibly sooner, thanks to that sword of yours. I’ll be long gone by then.”

“You said you didn’t want to go,” mumbled Saturday.

“If I’d told Mama I wanted to go, she would have ordered me to stay here, and I would have had to obey her,” Trix said. Curse him. Saturday had never been half so clever. “I can’t do that, Saturday. I have to go. Tesera was my mother.”

He certainly didn’t need to explain himself to her. She understood all too well the desire to leave this place, and would have for far less important a reason. “I . . . come too,” she managed to say. She may have failed at keeping his spirits up, but she could protect him on his journey.