Sure enough, Quintin passed through the gate surrounding the property and entered the home. “I’m back, my love,” he called into the house.

  A woman in her late twenties, around Quintin’s age, came into view. She had long, dark hair and brown eyes. She, too, had tattoos on her wrist, but the markings on her fingers only covered her middle and ring fingers near the knuckle, resembling jewelry embedded in her skin.

  “I heard about the shipwreck. What happened?” asked who I assumed was Amalia. I could tell she was a kind soul from her voice and demeanor.

  “From what I and the others could piece together, a cargo ship coming into Port Prosper from the Broken Bits went down along the shore. Storm must have swallowed them,” answered Quintin. “I found this poor girl alive on the beach.”

  Quintin lifted me slightly to show his wife. Amalia’s eyes widened as she moved to take me, but Quintin held back.

  “Her mother was shielding her from a demon. She’s got no one. From the looks of it, she was born only a few days ago at most,” said Quintin. “There’s no one to take care of her. No family. Nothing.”

  “I understand?” Amalia’s reply relayed her confusion. Sympathy filled her as she peered at me. She observed me closely. “Why is her head bandaged? Is she hurt?” Panic rose in her voice. “Do I need to—”

  “The baby is alright. I bandaged her head to hide her.”

  “Hide her?”

  “Be mindful,” said Quintin. Slowly, he unwrapped my head until my entire face was revealed to Amalia.

  Amalia took a small step back. It was slight, almost imperceptible, but I saw it. The moment her eyes landed on my ears, her expression flickered with uncertainty and fear.

  She caught herself quickly, smoothing over her hesitation with a carefully measured breath. “She’s a forest devil,” Amalia murmured. Her lips pressed together. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, slowly, her hands reached out, hovering just a hair’s breadth from my tiny frame.

  “She’s just a baby,” replied Quintin.

  Amali’s lips parted like she wanted to argue, but Quintin kept going.

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  “We humans are closer to devils than not,” he continued. “We all talk, think, eat, fight, and love. Devils live in this country; many are adventurers, and we trade with their homelands. Her kind come to this town all the time. Our people are used to devils.”

  “If you felt that way, you wouldn’t have bothered covering her ears,” argued Amalia. “She will always be seen as less than. Always. Even if she manages to make friends. People don’t change that easily.”

  “Amalia—”

  “Shouldn’t we try to find a relative or put a contract out for someone else to take her or—”

  “The girl is alone. A baby. With no one. She has no home,” said Quintin. “I don’t doubt she’ll face problems, but as long as we support her, she’ll grow up loved.”

  Amalia said nothing, but I could see Quintin’s words worked their way into her heart.

  If this family decided I wasn’t worth the risk, I would die. The realization settled in my gut, heavy and undeniable.

  My brain sped up, looking for solutions.

  I shouldn’t know how to do this.

  But I did. I could see Amalia teetering between doubt and sympathy. She wanted to reach out but needed just the right push. Her fingers, hovering inches away from me, were waiting for an excuse to close the distance.

  I could give her that excuse.

  And that was the part that unsettled me. Not that I had to do it. Not that it was necessary.

  But that it was easy.

  I let out a tiny, innocent squeak, my arms reaching for Amalia with a soft gurgle of nonsense sounds. A wide and eager smile overtook my face. Playful. Vulnerable. Exactly what she needed me to be.

  Amalia’s breath steadied in her throat. Her already softened stance collapsed completely, hesitation crumbling under the weight of maternal instinct. She let out a soft whimper. Her hands subtly reached out to me again, stopping only a hair’s breadth from my little body.

  Got you.

  Sensing the gap my actions created, Quintin nudged me forward into Amalia’s arms. She was hesitant for a brief moment. In that gap, I nuzzled my head into her chest. Amalia shuddered, signaling my victory.

  “Does she have a name?” asked Amalia.

  “I don’t think so,” answered Quintin.

  “Can I give her one?” Amalia asked, her voice quieter now, as if naming me made this real. Made me hers.

  Quintin exhaled. “Of course.”

  Amalia studied me for a long moment. Then, with a soft, almost reverent whisper, said, “Yennifer.”

  The name settled over me like a weight, unfamiliar yet…grounding. A tether to something I hadn’t asked for.

  “After my sister,” she added, as if that explained everything.

  I had achieved what I wanted. Safety. But something inside me twisted.

  That was too easy.

  My hands—small, fragile, innocent—had crafted an outcome without effort. I’d played Amalia like a piece in a. Game I wasn’t even conscious of playing.

  My stomach curled. What kind of person was I before?