Chapter 15: Chapter 15: Fifteen

The first light of dawn found Keira kneeling beside the almost mature mandrake plants, their thick purple-veined leaves now standing knee-high after two years of careful tending. The oldest specimens had developed the robust root systems Carl insisted were necessary, their growth about to reach the threshold of usefulness. She worked methodically, checking soil moisture and removing competing weeds, her hands already dark with earth.

“You’re out early, even for you,” James’s voice came from the doorway as she brushed dirt from her palms.

“The mandrake needs attention,” she said, standing and stretching muscles stiff from kneeling. “And I wanted to check the new plantings before we got busy with patients.”

James studied her for a moment, taking in the dirt-stained apron and the confident way she moved between the plants. “Two years of work in that garden. Whatever you’re planning with those roots, you’ve certainly committed to it.”

“Sometimes the most important preparations take time,” Keira replied, echoing something Carl had told her months ago.

“Indeed.” James gestured toward the clinic. “Speaking of preparations, I have something for you. Birthday gifts that I hope are more… appropriate than my earlier attempts.”

His tone was different this year—less nervous energy, more the assured warmth of someone comfortable in his role. As they settled at their small table, Keira noticed he’d laid out four bundles wrapped in brown paper, each one a different size.

“Fifteen,” James said, settling across from her. “Old enough that people have started asking about ‘the young woman healer’ rather than ‘James’s clever daughter.’”

Keira paused, her hand halfway to the first bundle. “Dad, they’re not asking about me because of my medical skills.”

“What do you mean?”

“When people ask about me, it’s not because they’ve heard about my training or techniques.” She met his eyes gently. “Those still get attributed to you, remember? They ask about me because they want to be tended by what they call ‘a pretty little thing.’”

James’s expression shifted, pride giving way to embarrassment and then to something approaching frustration. “I… I thought…”

“I know what you thought. And I appreciate that you see me as a skilled healer.” Keira’s voice was matter-of-fact rather than bitter. “But the older man last week? He didn’t request me because he’d heard about my surgical innovations. He wanted the ‘charming young lady’ to bandage his perfectly minor cut.”

James looked at the wrapped bundles on the table with sudden concern. “I… these might make that worse, won’t they? Drawing more of that kind of attention?”

Keira followed his gaze to the packages. “The clothes I have now are getting tight. It’s starting to be uncomfortable, and it’ll only get worse.” She shrugged. “The attention will be there regardless, Dad. At least this way I won’t be distracted by uncomfortable clothing during procedures.”

James nodded slowly, some of the worry leaving his expression. “That’s… practical of you.”

“It’s the reality,” she said simply, reaching for the first bundle.

She unwrapped it to reveal a dress in deep blue wool, cut in a woman’s style with room through the bodice and proper length for someone her height. The second contained a practical day dress in sturdy brown linen, and a third held what looked like undergarments designed for a woman’s figure rather than a girl’s.

“I asked the tailor for advice,” James said, his cheeks slightly pink. “She assured me these would fit properly. More properly than… than what you’ve been making do with.”

Keira held up the blue dress, noting the careful stitching and the way it was cut to accommodate her changing shape without embarrassment.

The fourth bundle was smaller but heavier. When she opened it, her breath caught. A leather apron, beautifully crafted with multiple pockets for instruments, the leather soft and supple from careful treatment.

Keira ran her fingers over the smooth leather, feeling the quality of the craftsmanship. “It’s beautiful. Professional.”

There’s one more,“ James said, producing a final bundle from behind his chair. ”I realized that your training clothes are probably as ill-fitting as everything else by now.“

The package contained a tunic and leather pants, both cut from supple material that would move with her body rather than restrict it. The tunic was fitted enough to show her developing figure without being immodest, while the leather pants were designed for flexibility and protection during combat practice.

“The leatherworker said these would be durable enough for sword work but comfortable for extended training,” James explained. “And they’re… properly sized.”

Keira held up the tunic, noting how it was tailored to accommodate her changing shape while still allowing full range of motion. “These must have cost a fortune.”

“Worth every copper if they keep you safe during practice,” James replied firmly. “Your old training clothes were getting dangerous - too tight across the shoulders, too short in the arms.”

She stood and hugged him quickly, the gesture speaking louder than words.

James was quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “Three years ago, I would have said my job was to protect you from the world’s complications. I was still thinking of you as a child who needed shielding.” He gestured toward the leather apron. “But watching you work, seeing your confidence with patients, your innovations… You’re not a child anymore, Keira. You’re becoming a healer in your own right.”

The recognition in his voice made something warm settle in her chest. “It feels strange sometimes. Growing up in front of you. You missed the early years, but you’ve seen everything since.”

“I’ve been thinking about that too,” James admitted. “How I came into your life when you were already twelve, when so much of who you are was already formed. But then I watch you now—confident, skilled, making your own choices—and I think maybe that’s how it was supposed to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean maybe my job wasn’t to shape you from the beginning. Maybe it was to support who you were becoming.” James smiled. “To give you space to grow into whoever you’re meant to be.”

Keira set the leather apron carefully on the table, feeling the weight of his words. “And if who I’m meant to be takes me away from here? From this clinic?”

“Then I’ll be proud that I helped prepare you for whatever comes next,” James said without hesitation. “Though I hope you’ll remember your old man fondly when you’re revolutionizing medicine somewhere that actually recognizes your contributions.”

“Dad.” The word came out with more emotion than she’d intended.

“Happy birthday, Keira,” James said softly. “To whatever this new year brings.”

Keira hugged James, longer this time. “Thank you. For everything.”

She picked up her presents and brought them to her room.

“Happy birthday. The pieces are almost in place, within a year you should have the means to make a name for yourself, if you wait for the right opportunity.”

I will trust you to tell me when the time is right. The cleansing method saves lifes which is good but it too has been attributed to James again, despite his corrections. Just like with the blood loss prevention method.

“Tourniquet.”

What?

“The blood loss prevention method. That is called a tourniquet.”

Fine. Just like the tourniquet method has been attributed to James. I love him, he is my dad, but… I… I don’t know Carl. I’m actually happy but also frustrated. I want to be just happy.

“It is all right, child. A bit more work and an influential patient. That is all you need. As for the pieces almost being in place, the next step would be to visit the potters…”

* * *

The first pottery workshop she entered was Nathan’s family’s—the modest but well-organized space she’d visited several times over the past months, though never with a request like this one. Shelves displayed various bowls, cups, and other practical pieces, all in the familiar brown and tan earthenware she knew Nathan’s parents specialized in.

Carl’s voice came clearly in her thoughts as she browsed the familiar wares. “Look for the pretty, purple clay. The one that is only used for decorative purposes. It should be cheap given how abundant and seemingly useless it is.”

Keira scanned the displays but saw only the usual brown and tan pieces Nathan’s family was known for. Why that clay specifically?

“The clay has another property, apparently forgotten in this era. You will understand in time.”

Nathan’s mother, Laura, looked up from her wheel where she was shaping a large bowl. Clay covered her hands and apron, and she wore the focused expression of someone deep in her craft.

“Keira, dear! How lovely to see you.” Laura’s face brightened with genuine warmth. “What brings you by today?”

“Hello, Laura,” Keira said, feeling slightly awkward about her unusual request. “I was wondering if you work with purple clay at all?”

Laura’s expression shifted to mild confusion. “Purple clay? No, dear, we stick to practical materials here. Brown clay for everyday use, tan for finer work. That clay is just for show pieces—no real use to it. Expensive too, for what it is.”

“I see,” Keira said, disappointed but not entirely surprised. Nathan’s parents had always focused on functional pottery rather than decorative pieces.

“What do you need purple clay for?” Laura asked, wiping her hands on her apron with motherly concern. “Perhaps there’s something else that would work for your project?”

“No sorry, I specifically need this kind of clay,” Keira said carefully. “It’s for… an experiment I’m working on.”

Laura’s expression grew fond but puzzled. “You and your experiments, just like Nathan with his sword training. Neither of you content with ordinary pursuits.” She gestured around the workshop. “The potter down the street works with fancier materials. He might have what you’re looking for.”

“Thank you,” Keira said, heading toward the door. “Please give my regards to Nathan.”

“Of course, dear. Stop by anytime—you know you’re always welcome here.”

* * *

The second pottery workshop was larger and more elaborate than Nathan’s family’s modest operation, featuring intricately crafted decorative pieces alongside practical vessels. Among them, Keira spotted what she was looking for—several ornate vases and small statues made from distinctive purple clay, their surfaces rich and lustrous even without glaze.

“Those purple pieces are beautiful,” she said to the potter, a stern-faced man with clay dust in his beard.

“Aye, pretty work,” he agreed with a nod toward the display.

“Actually, I was wondering if you could make me some plates from that purple clay. About twenty of them.”

The potter’s expression shifted to one of dismay. “Plates? For eating? No, girl, don’t do that. Food tastes bitter from purple clay—ruins every meal. You want good brown clay for plates, something practical.”

“I specifically need purple clay plates,” Keira insisted.

“I won’t do it,” the potter said firmly, shaking his head. “Won’t have people saying I made vessels that spoil food. Bad for business. Find someone else if you want to waste good clay on nonsense.”

Frustrated, Keira left for the next workshop.

* * *

The third workshop was even larger than the previous one, filled with work in various stages of completion. Like the second potter, he clearly worked with purple clay—several elegant pieces sat drying on his shelves, their deep color striking against the earthier tones of more practical vessels.

“Good afternoon,” Keira began. “I’m looking for someone who could make me some plates from purple clay. About twenty of them. They don’t need to be perfect—just roughly plate-shaped things.”

The potter paused in his work, giving her the same concerned look the previous potter had. “Purple clay plates? You know food will taste bitter from them, don’t you? It’s not suitable for eating.”

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“They’re not for food,” Keira said simply, not wanting to explain further.

He studied her face for a moment, then his expression shifted to recognition. “Wait… you’re the pretty thing that works with James, aren’t you? His daughter?”

The description made her wince internally and blush, but she kept her voice level. “I’m Keira, and yes, I work at the clinic with him.”

“Ah, Keira! You treated my wife last winter. Saved her life, James said.” His demeanor warmed considerably.

He gestured to a pile of clay scraps and oddly shaped pieces near his workbench. “Tell you what—I work with purple clay fairly regularly, and there’s always waste. Bits that didn’t turn out quite right, practice pieces, failed attempts. If you’re fine with rough plate-shaped things that aren’t perfect, I could fire some of that waste for you.”

Relief flooded through her. “That would be wonderful! How much would they cost?”

“If you can wait a week or two for me to fire them properly?” The potter smiled. “Nothing at all. Consider it payment for what you did for my wife.”

“Thank you so much,” Keira said, meaning every word. “This really helps.”

“Glad to do it.”

As she left the workshop, she felt a surge of satisfaction. One task completed successfully, and without spending any of her precious coins.

“Remember this moment, Keira. Your actions have consequences. You always wonder how James can afford your gifts when you seemingly do not have much coin.”

The observation hit her unexpectedly. It was true—she’d often wondered how James managed the expensive medical instruments, the fine clothes, the training weapons. Their clinic did well, but not that well.

“Kindness is an investment that pays dividends in ways you cannot always predict. And now, one more thing and we’re done with the preparations for the day.”

* * *

Two hours later, Keira approached the clinic with a bulging sack slung over her shoulder, flour dusting her dress and the unmistakable smell of decay wafting around her. The afternoon’s collection had been more successful than she’d hoped—six different bakeries had contributed their spoiled goods, though the smell was becoming increasingly unpleasant as the contents warmed in the afternoon sun.

She paused at the clinic’s front door, pressing her ear against the wood. James’s voice drifted from within, discussing treatment options with what sounded like an elderly patient. Perfect. She could slip in through the back entrance.

Keira crept around to the rear of the building, holding the sack away from her body. Whatever Carl was planning, she hoped it would be worth this disgusting errand. She’d never imagined she’d spend her fifteenth birthday collecting rotting bread, but Carl’s guidance had never led her astray before.

She slipped through the back door and tiptoed toward the narrow staircase that led to her experimental room. James had cleared out a small storage space specifically for her stranger projects after the incident with the fermenting herbs that had made their living quarters unbearable for a week.

Halfway up the stairs, one of the floorboards creaked loudly. Keira froze.

“Keira? Is that you?” James’s voice called from the front room.

“Just… getting some supplies!” she called back, taking the remaining stairs quickly. “Don’t come up here!”

“Are you alright? You sound out of breath.”

“Fine! Everything’s fine!” She reached the landing and fumbled with the latch to her experimental room. “Just… working on projects!”

Behind the closed door of her sanctuary, Keira set the sack down on her work table with relief. The small room had a window for ventilation and its own hearth for heating experiments—perfect for whatever unpleasant process Carl had in mind.

“First, set water to boil. A large pot, filled about halfway. Once it reaches a full boil, remove it from heat and let it cool completely.”

She built up the fire and set their second-largest pot to heat. While waiting for it to boil, she untied the sack and examined its contents with resigned determination. The collection was impressive in its variety—some loaves merely spotted with mold, others completely covered in fuzzy growth of different colors.

“Now, while the water heats, begin harvesting. Cut away only the blue-green mold—nothing else. No bread, no white mold, and especially avoid anything with black mold. Black mold is dangerous and will ruin everything.”

Keira selected her sharpest knife and began the tedious work. The blue-green patches were easy to identify, but she found herself being extremely cautious about avoiding the black spots that had developed on several loaves.

Why is black mold so dangerous? she wondered, carefully excising a particularly large section of blue-green fuzz.

“Different varieties produce different substances. The blue-green serves our purpose. Black mold… does not. Better to be generous in your discarding than risk contamination.”

Following his advice, Keira threw away entire sections of bread that had even small spots of black mold, keeping only the cleanest blue-green specimens. The work was methodical but unpleasant—the smell was getting worse as she broke apart the rotting loaves, and touching the moldy surfaces made her skin crawl.

By the time her pot reached a full boil, she had harvested a bowl full of blue-green mold pieces and discarded a much larger pile of unwanted bread and other colored growths.

“Perfect. Now remove the pot from the heat and let it cool completely.”

Keira lifted the heavy pot away from the fire and set it on her work table. Steam rose from the surface, and she could feel the heat radiating from the metal.

“While we wait, put all the blue-green pieces into that smaller bowl and cover them. They need to stay fresh until the water is ready.”

She covered the bowl of mold with a clean cloth and settled back to wait. The smell of decay still clung to her clothes and hands despite her care in handling the materials.

An hour later, the water had cooled to room temperature. “Now, add all the blue-green mold pieces to the cooled water. Stir gently to create what you might call a soup.”

Keira poured the harvested mold into the pot and stirred with a wooden spoon. The mixture looked revolting—bits of fuzzy blue-green growth floating in increasingly cloudy water. The smell intensified, making her wrinkle her nose.

“Excellent. Cover it with cloth and place it somewhere warm but dark. Check it daily, but otherwise leave it undisturbed for at least a week.”

She found a corner of the room away from the window and set the covered pot carefully in place. “Now what?”

“Now you wait. And perhaps consider a bath—you smell rather strongly of decay.”

Keira looked down at her flour-dusted dress and caught another whiff of the unpleasant odor that seemed to have soaked into the fabric. The thought of a long, hot bath suddenly seemed like the most appealing thing in the world.

She made her way to the main bathroom, where she heated water and filled their large wooden tub. As she sank into the steaming water, scrubbing away the afternoon’s work with strong soap, she reflected on the strange tasks Carl had set her.

Purple clay plates and moldy bread soup. Whatever he was planning, it was unlike anything she’d ever attempted before. But his track record spoke for itself—the tourniquet method, the wound cleaning technique, all the small innovations that had made their clinic’s reputation. If Carl said this disgusting mixture would somehow help save lives, she would trust him.

Even if she had no idea how rotting bread could possibly accomplish such a thing.

“Patience, child,” Carl’s voice came softly as she relaxed in the warm water. “In time, you will understand. What you have created today may prove more valuable than any surgical technique.”

Keira closed her eyes and sank deeper into the bath, letting the hot water wash away the last traces of her peculiar birthday errand. Whatever came next, at least she was clean.

* * *

Evening found Keira making her way to their established training field, wearing her new leather pants and fitted tunic. The clothes felt strange but wonderful—properly tailored to move with her body rather than against it. After years of training in increasingly tight garments, the freedom of movement was almost intoxicating.

Nathan was already waiting, practicing solo forms with his training sword. Over the past year, both of them had grown considerably—not just in skill but physically. Nathan had gained height and lean muscle, while Keira had developed the quick reflexes and endurance that came from constant practice.

He looked up as she approached, and his sword form faltered mid-swing. For a moment, he simply stared, taking in her appearance with obvious surprise. The new training clothes fit her properly for the first time in months, and the difference was… noticeable.

“I… uh…” Nathan cleared his throat, his usual easy grin replaced by something more uncertain. “Happy birthday. You look… different.”

Heat rose in Keira’s cheeks, but she found herself doing a small twirl, letting the new tunic and pants show their fit. “New clothes. Finally fit properly.” She paused, suddenly feeling bold. “Do you like them?”

“Right. Yes. They’re…” Nathan seemed to realize he was staring and quickly looked away, then back, then away again. “They look good. Practical. For training.”

The awkwardness hung between them like a physical presence. This was Nathan—her training partner, her friend, the person she’d sparred with hundreds of times. But something about the way he was looking at her, the way her pulse quickened under his gaze, made everything feel different.

“Should we…” she gestured toward their usual starting positions, desperate to return to familiar ground.

“Yes! Training. Right.” Nathan practically leaped into guard position, his movements unusually sharp and eager.

Their first bout was stilted, both of them too aware of each other to find their normal rhythm. Nathan’s attacks were hesitant, as if he was afraid to come too close. Keira found herself hyperconscious of how her new clothes moved, how they emphasized her changing figure in ways her old garments never had.

“This is ridiculous,” Keira said after a particularly awkward exchange where they’d both pulled back from what should have been normal contact. “We’ve been training together for two years.”

Nathan lowered his sword, running a hand through his hair. “You’re right. It’s just… you look…” He trailed off, clearly struggling with words.

“Like a person instead of a scarecrow in ill-fitting clothes?”

That earned her a genuine laugh. “Something like that.” Nathan’s grin returned, more natural this time. “Let’s try again. Properly this time.”

Their second attempt was better. Familiar patterns of attack and defense helped them settle back into their established dynamic. Nathan’s movements became fluid again, while Keira marveled at how much easier everything was with clothes that actually fit.

“That’s more like it,” Nathan said after she’d successfully executed a complex combination that ended with her training blade at his throat. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten everything I taught you.”

“You taught me?” Keira raised an eyebrow. “I seem to remember beating you three times out of five last week.”

“Pure luck,” Nathan said with mock seriousness, settling back into guard position.

They developed their usual rhythm over the next several matches, the initial awkwardness fading as familiar patterns took over. Their informal scoring system—tracking wins and losses across multiple bouts—had become second nature, a way to measure progress without making their practice too competitive.

Keira won the first official match by deflecting one of Nathan’s cuts and landing a quick thrust to his ribs, the training blade tapping lightly against his side.

“Better,” Nathan acknowledged, stepping back to reset. “But I’m just getting warmed up.”

The second match was closer, both of them testing new combinations and techniques they’d been developing. Nathan managed to catch her rapier with his crossguard and follow through with a pommel strike that would have ended the fight with sharp weapons.

By the third match, both were breathing hard and working up a considerable sweat in the warm midsummer evening. The sun was setting, painting the field in golden light, but the air remained thick and humid.

Nathan paused between bouts, pulling his tunic over his head and tossing it aside to cool down.

Keira found herself staring.

She’d seen Nathan without a shirt before during their training—it was practical in hot weather, nothing unusual. But something felt fundamentally different now. Where once she’d simply noticed that he was getting taller and stronger, now she found herself really seeing him—the lean muscle across his shoulders, the way his chest had broadened over the past year, the unconscious grace with which he moved.

Heat that had nothing to do with the evening’s warmth spread through her chest and stomach, a flutter of something she’d never experienced before. Her mouth felt dry, and she had to consciously focus on breathing normally.

“Keira? You alright?” Nathan asked, noticing her stillness.

“Fine,” she managed, though her voice came out slightly higher than usual. “Just… catching my breath.”

They resumed sparring, but Keira found her concentration scattered. She kept noticing things she’d never paid attention to before—the way Nathan’s muscles moved beneath his skin when he attacked, how his hair had gotten slightly longer and now fell across his forehead when he fought. Her timing was off, her responses delayed by distracting thoughts.

Nathan won the next two matches more easily than usual, clearly puzzled by her sudden decline in performance.

“What’s wrong?” he asked after disarming her for the second time in a row. “You’re fighting like you did six months ago.”

“Distraction can be fatal in combat,” Carl observed dryly in her mind. “Though I suspect this particular distraction serves a purpose. As different as it may be.”

Keira felt heat rise in her cheeks, mortified that her reaction was so obvious. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just… tired from the surgery today.”

“Are you sure? Because you seem—”

“I’m fine,” she said more sharply than she intended, then immediately felt guilty for snapping at him. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

Nathan pulled his tunic back on, and Keira felt some of the tension leave her shoulders as the distraction was covered. “We could call it here if you want. It’s getting dark anyway.”

“No, let’s finish properly.” She needed to prove to herself—and to him—that she could handle this. “One more match.”

Their final bout was better, though Keira had to work harder than usual to maintain focus. She managed to win by a narrow margin, landing a light touch to Nathan’s sword arm after a prolonged exchange.

“There’s the fighter I know,” Nathan said with approval. “I was starting to worry you were coming down with something.”

As they walked back toward town, the easy conversation that usually filled these moments felt weighted with new awareness. Keira found herself stealing glances at Nathan’s profile in the fading light, noticing things she’d never paid attention to before—the line of his jaw, the way he carried himself, the fact that he was now several inches taller than her.

“Same time tomorrow?” Nathan asked as they reached the point where their paths diverged.

“Of course,” Keira replied, though she was already wondering how she was going to handle feeling this aware of him during future training sessions.

Nathan hesitated for a moment, as if he wanted to say something more, then simply nodded and headed toward his family’s workshop. Keira watched him go, noting things about his walk and posture that she’d never paid attention to before.

“Growing up brings many… complications,” Carl observed quietly. “Some more pleasant than others.”

I don’t understand what’s happening to me, Keira thought back, still feeling unsettled by her reactions.

“Understanding will come with time. For now, simply accept that your relationship with young Nathan is… changing.”

* * *

The clinic felt peaceful when Keira returned, the familiar scent of herbs and the soft glow of lamplight creating a sanctuary after the day’s intensity. James looked up from his medical journal as she entered, setting aside his reading with obvious interest.

“How was training?” he asked, gesturing for her to join him at their small table. “You look… thoughtful.”

“Nathan and I are both getting better,” she said, settling into her chair while trying to sort through the confusing mixture of feelings from the evening. “The new clothes worked well for sparring—much better range of movement.”

“Good. I was hoping the tailor understood the requirements correctly.” James studied her face with the perceptive gaze she’d learned meant he was reading more than just her words. “Everything alright? You seem unsettled.”

“Just processing the day, I think,” Keira said, which was true even if incomplete.

James was quiet for a moment, then leaned forward with a more serious expression. “Speaking of changes, have you noticed we’ve been performing more amputations lately? More battle injuries?”

Keira nodded slowly. “Yes, actually. And the wounds are different too—sword cuts, arrow injuries. Not the usual accidents from farm work or construction.” She paused, connecting pieces. “I heard people talking about a war?”

“A succession war,” James confirmed grimly. “Between the current king and his older sister. It started after the plague killed their father, the previous king. Both siblings have legitimate claims, and both have gathered armies.”

The implications began to dawn on her. “That’s why we’re seeing more soldiers?”

“Among other things,” James said, his voice growing heavier. “The conflict has intensified recently. They’re starting to conscript men seventeen and older.” He met her eyes directly. “And apparently some physicians as well.”

A chill ran down Keira’s spine. “You mean they could force you to serve as a battlefield surgeon?”

“So far I haven’t been conscripted because I run this clinic—they consider civilian medical care essential. But if the war continues to escalate…” He trailed off, the unspoken possibility hanging between them.

Keira felt her stomach clench with sudden fear. The thought of James being taken away, forced to serve in some distant battlefield, was almost unbearable. “How likely is it?”

“I don’t know,” James admitted. “But it’s something we need to be aware of. These are uncertain times, and we should be prepared for… changes.”

The weight of his words settled over them as they prepared for bed. Keira banked the fire while James secured the clinic doors, their familiar evening routine now tinged with new uncertainties.

“An eventful birthday,” Carl observed quietly as she settled into bed.

That’s one way to put it, Keira thought back, still processing everything from the purple clay to Nathan’s distracting presence to James’s warnings about conscription.

“Rest well, child. Tomorrow brings its own challenges.”

As sleep gradually claimed her, Keira reflected that fifteen already felt different from fourteen in ways she was still discovering. More complicated, perhaps, but also more interesting.