James Ward was the only silver-haired boy in a family of dark-haired men, and he had come to the village well to find out why. His mother had died before she could tell him. His father would not. Somewhere in this village, his grandmother had once lived, and someone here still remembered her. James had two days before his older brother came looking for him and dragged him home. He kept his hood up and his blue eyes down. He asked the woman at the well about old families. She started to answer, then stopped and looked past his shoulder. James turned. A figure in a gray hood stood at the edge of the square, half behind a cart. Same figure as yesterday. Same figure as the road in. Watching. When James met the stare, the figure did not move. He could not knock on a single door with that thing behind him. Whoever it was would follow, and whoever spoke to him would pay for it later. He had to end it now. James walked straight at the cart. The hooded figure broke and ran. James ran after. Past a butcher's stall, past a low stone wall, into the trees behind the village. Branches raked his sleeves. He was faster than he looked. He closed the gap, grabbed a fistful of gray cloak, and yanked. The hood fell back. Blond hair, longer than his own. Blue eyes. A boy about his brother's age, breathing hard, one hand clamped over something inside his jacket. "Get off," the boy said. "I'm not here for you." "You've watched me for two days." "I've watched the road for two days. You just kept walking through it." He shifted his weight. Something under the jacket caught the light through his collar. A shard of blue and purple, gleaming like a piece of trapped sky. James stared at it. "What is that?" "None of your business." The boy's eyes flicked to James's hair. "Silver. Huh. Figures." "Figures what?" "Nothing." He was already backing away. "Look.James. I'm Gage. I thought you were someone else. People are hunting me, and you don't want to be near me when they catch up. Go home, silver." Gage turned and ran into the trees. James did not follow. He walked back to the square with his hood down. The woman at the well was gone. So was the cart. A tall figure in a dark coat stood where the cart had been, jet black hair, hands in his pockets, watching him the way the hooded boy had watched him yesterday. Jonathan. "Father wants you home," his brother said. He did not raise his voice. He never had to. "Now." James's two days were gone. The village had seen his face. And a stranger with a stolen sky in his jacket had looked at his silver hair and said figures, like he already knew the answer James had come here to find.