Mystique had been trying to focus on the reading lesson when someone rushed in with news of the dig. They'd found something under the frost, they said. Something carved. She followed them outside because the patterns on her feathers had suddenly gone completely still. The object lay in a shallow pit, half-buried in frozen earth. It was round and smooth, like a bowl made of dark stone. Carved into its surface were spirals and curves that matched the markings on her wings exactly. The diggers pointed past the pit to the old tree at the edge of the clearing. Its braided trunk bore the same patterns, worn deep into the bark. She walked closer and pressed her wing against the wood. The carvings were older than the tree itself, cut into it before it had grown this tall. Her feathers began to hum. For the first time, she understood: the patterns had not begun with her. They had been waiting here all along.