Freya crouched over a sparrow with a broken wing, and she had nowhere safe to take it. Rain dripped through the branches above her. She had searched the wildwood for weeks, hunting a hidden clearing where wounded animals could heal in peace. She found nothing. Every hollow flooded. Every thicket let the wind cut through. The sparrow shivered in her cupped hands, and Freya's own hands were shaking too. She tucked the bird against her blue dress and beat her purple wings toward home. Her house was a willow tree, its hollow trunk warm with tiny lights strung through the hanging branches. She laid the sparrow on a soft purple beanbag near the door. It was dry here. It was safe. But her home was small, and she could not fit a whole forest of hurt creatures inside one tree. "I keep looking outside," she said aloud. "Why do I keep looking outside?" A black cat lifted its head from the corner. It lived with Freya and watched her come and go, sleek and quiet, always studying her. Now it rose, stretched, and padded to the far wall of the trunk. It scratched once at the wood, then stared at her with green eyes. "There's nothing there," Freya said. But the cat scratched again. She pressed her palm to the spot. The wood felt hollow. She pushed harder, and a panel of bark swung inward. Cool air breathed out. Behind the wall lay a wide chamber inside the willow's roots, dry and still, larger than her whole front room. She had lived here for years and never known. A vivid purple creature drifted out of the dark. It had a dragon's long neck and butterfly wings, small enough to rest on her finger. It circled the chamber and settled on a root, wings glowing faint in the gloom. The little dragonfly had been living in this hidden room the whole time, keeping it warm. Freya laughed, then covered her mouth. The sparrow was still weak by the door. She carried it in and set it on a bed of dry moss inside the new chamber. The wind could not reach here. The rain could not reach here. The sanctuary she had searched the whole forest for had waited under her own floor. She stood in the doorway and counted the space. Room for many nests. Room for many wings. Then she thought of the wounded animals still out in the storm tonight, cold and hidden, none of them knowing this place existed. Her sanctuary had a roof now. It had no patients but one. Freya wrapped her cloak tight and stepped back into the rain. She had a whole forest to tell.

The rain stopped by morning. Freya stood outside her willow tree, ready to search the forest again. But she stopped at the door and looked at her hands. Yesterday the sparrow had shivered the whole flight home. She had held it against her chest, and still its wing had jostled with every beat of her wings. She could carry one small bird. She could not carry a fox, or a deer, or anything that fought against her grip. Any animal she found today might arrive home worse than she left it. Her black cat slipped out through the door. Its long coat shone where the light touched it. The cat walked a few steps, stopped, and looked back at her. It wanted her to follow. "I can't just carry them in my arms," she said. "I need something to hold them steady." The cat led her to a wide patch of lavender near the roots. The purple blossoms stood tall on their slender stems. The cat pawed at the base, then bit a stem and pulled. It tore loose in a long, tough strip. Freya knelt. She pulled a stem herself. It held her weight when she tugged. She understood then. She could weave the stems into something. A basket. A soft bed she could carry. She gathered an armful and sat cross-legged in the wet grass. Her small purple dragon fluttered down from the branches and landed beside her. It watched her fingers with bright blue eyes. Freya bent the stems and looped them over and under. Her first tries fell apart. The strands slipped free and sprang loose in her lap. She started again. This time she soaked the stems in a puddle first, and they turned soft and easy to bend. She wove a flat base, then curved the sides up. The little dragon breathed a thread of warmth across the weave, and the stems dried tight in place. By afternoon she held a shallow basket lined with soft lavender heads. She pressed her palm into it. The bottom did not give. Freya cradled the basket to her chest and beat her wings. It rode against her without slipping. Inside, a wounded animal would lie still and cushioned, walled from the wind. She landed and set it down, breathing hard, grinning. "Now I can bring them home," she said. The cat sniffed the basket and turned away, satisfied. Freya tied a strap of woven stems across her shoulders so her hands stayed free. She looked toward the trees. The forest was wide, and she did not know where the hurt ones hid. She had a way to carry them now. She still had to find them. She stepped past the last of the lavender and into the shadow of the wildwood, the empty basket ready on her back.