Maeve stared gloomily into the small fire that her father had made. It crackled merrily, shedding warmth and light on those gathered around it. For some reason that seemed to be making her father nervous—he kept glancing over his shoulder as if expecting someone to come tearing out of the shadows at him. Maeve smiled at him, but the smile didn't reach her eyes and she knew that her father knew that. So she stared gloomily into the small fire.

"Where is Larette?" her father asked suddenly, peering into the darkened area away from the fire.

"Right here, Father!" Larette piped up, waving a hand at her father. She had been laying on the hard ground on the other side of the fire, and he must not have seen her.

"Don't worry, Father! We're all okay," she assured him, placing an hand on his arm.

"You shouldn't be okay," their father said bitterly, "no one should get used to being holdless. How long has it been now, Maeve? How many Turns do you have?"

"I've seventeen Turns now, Father," Maeve told him, her brown eyes filled with worry for her father, who was looking old and weary.

"Seventeen!" Her father exclaimed, shaking his head. "You'd only twelve then. Five Turns it's been—five horrid Turns."

"They haven't been horrid!" Maeve declared stoutly. "I don't need a hold when I've got you and Mother, and Larette. Even Marxus." Maeve smiled fondly at her little brother, who was curled up in her mother's lap.

"Everyone needs a hold, Maeve. How many times have we almost been completely devoured by Thread? How many people have scorned us and turned us away, not caring about us, despising us? It's all my fault." His voice sounded hollow and defeated.

"It is not!" Maeve said hotly, narrowing her eyes. She looked to her mother for help, but she was pointedly making sure Larette was okay. "We all know the truth. It was a bad year for everyone, and we just get hit worse than the others, especially with that Thread burrow."

"Sharding weyr!" snarled her father suddenly. "Can't trust a sharding one of them! By the First Egg, if I had my way they would live a Turn in our boots. See how they like it then!"

Maeve watched in astonishment and her father spit bitterly onto the ground. True, the Thread burrow had destroyed the main section of their crops that remained after the bitter storm. True, the Weyr should have probably stopped it sooner. True, they hadn't been able to meet their tithe and had been kicked out of their hold. True all of that. But the Weyrs had a whole world to look after—it wasn't really their fault that they had missed a burrow. It was just plain bad luck that the burrow had been on their land.

"I'll go get some water, shall I?" Maeve asked, trying to sound cheerful. All of the past several nights had been like this, miserable even though they should be happy. Her father had finally been able to barter for some decent clothing and food for their family. He even had spoken hopefully a few nights ago about going back to their hold and starting again. Yet he was gloomy now, depressed, and extremely...jumpy.

"Yes, dear, get some water," her father said, clearly not really listening.

Maeve watched the firelight reflect in his eyes for a moment before she grabbed a pail and set off for the small stream that was a bit away from their campsite. Her father had adamantly refused to camp next to the stream, saying something about being too obvious. Maeve shook her head and swung the pail about, trying to recall some of the happy times of her life. For there had been happy times in abundance, before that fateful burrow five Turns ago. Maeve smiled fondly remembering a time they took a trip to their Weyr—Caelum. It had been a wonderful place, and Maeve had declared then that she was going to be a bronzerider, causing everyone to laugh. Why couldn't they do that anymore? Why did the happiness leave with the hold?

The bubbling sound of the stream brought Maeve back to the present day with a bump. She was starting to shiver a little—even here in Southern it could be chilly at night. The fire seemed far away and long ago. It had taken her a long time to get to the stream, Maeve realized. Why had her father insisted on camping so far from it? Maeve scooped up a full pail of water, easily lifting it out of the stream and setting it on the bank. Five Turns of holdlessness had made her as strong as any man on Pern, although she was still skinny. And tall. Maeve hated that—she towered above even her father, and everyone commented on it. "By Faranth!" they would exclaim "You are tall!" Maeve shrugged it off, but it bothered her. Why couldn't she just be normal, like everyone else? Not a holdless, gangly, ugly girl. Maeve brooded for a while by the stream before she noticed anything odd.

On the horizon behind her there was an orange glow, like that of a fire, but much too large. Maeve jumped to her feet and grabbed the pail of water, rushing back to where they had camped. The journey seemed to take forever. As she got closer, Maeve could feel the heat. It was a fire. A large fire, and possibly a very dangerous one on the thickly vegetated Southern continent. There was also the faint sound of crackling and popping from the fire, and Maeve heard, her heart plummeting, the unmistakable ring of screaming. She broke into a run, carefully holding the pail in front of her so as to not spill a drop.

"Mother!" she screamed. "Father! Larette! Marxus!"

Closer and closer she got until she could smell it too. There was the stench of burning wood and vegetation, thick smoke billowing from where live plants had caught fire. Another sickening reek filled Maeve's nostrils, but she refused to acknowledge it. It smelled like burnt hair and flesh, but she would not believe it. She ran until she could not bear the heat coming from the fire, and here she collapsed, sobbing uncontrollably. In a fit of sheer desperation she emptied the pail of water, but the pitiful wash of water didn't even reach the flames. Maeve had inhaled a large amount of smoke at this point and she coughed until tears ran down her face.

"Mother!" she repeated. "Father! Larette! Marxus!"

There was no response. Maeve could not hear the screaming anymore, but she could not fool herself into thinking this was a good thing. Strangled sobs escaped her throat, her face contorted with grief. What sort of cruel fate was this? Spending five Turns holdless, to end in a fiery inferno. Maeve supposed they must have fallen asleep, and the fire had sparked and spread. Maeve stopped sobbing and lay still, despair watching over her. She had never been in a worse position. She was alone—seventeen Turns, holdless, and completely alone. Her thoughts were halted, however, by the noise of whimpering.

Maeve got to her knees and crawled towards where she thought the noise was originating. A few rocks cut into her knees, and her hands stung something awful, but she ignored the little discomforts. She was used to pain, and what pain could possibly compare to that of the one in her heart? So she crawled onwards until she saw a crumpled heap from which the whimpering was coming.

"Larette?" Maeve asked, her throat going completely dry. "Larette is that you?"

Approaching the heap, Maeve poked it. It stirred a bit, attempting to move to face Maeve. Maeve gathered it in her arms, and saw that it was indeed her younger sister. Larette's once-pretty face was blackened and blistered, her lips cracked and bleeding, her eyes completely destroyed. The tears came once again to Maeve, and she sobbed over her sister's broken body.

"Maeve?" The word escaped the lips, almost inaudible, just a breath. "Is...it...you?"

"Larette!" Maeve choked out, rocking her sister. "Larette you are alive!"
"There...were...men." Larette gasped, feebly twitching her hand. "Father..." The effort seemed too much for the injured girl. She attempted to lick her lips, but her tongue was swollen, thick, and completely dry. "Go..." she said, and Maeve detected a note of urgency. "Go...Maeve..."

"I won't leave you!" Maeve vowed, wiping away her tears. "I'll get you better, don't worry, Larette. It will be alright."

"It's...too...late for...me." Larette breathed. "Save...yourself...you...will be... alright..."

Larette's head lolled completely back, and all raspy breathing noised stopped. Maeve stared in disbelief at her disfigured younger sister, her nostrils filled with the stench of death and burning. Larette was gone, dead in her sister's arms. Maeve bowed her head over the broken little body, and then set it lovingly on the ground. The fire would spread, most likely, and consume it. Maeve could stand it no longer. She sprang to her feet, suddenly imbued with a new strength. Blinded by tears she turned and ran, pausing to snatch up the pail she had abandoned. Clutching it in her hands, she ran and ran until she could no longer even breathe. Wearily she collapsed, looking behind her. The fire was only a dim glow on the horizon, and by its light she could see dragons. Too late. She thought bitterly. Always too late. Too late for my hold, too late for my family, and too late for my sister.

Maeve crawled now, desperately trying to escape the awful scene that was behind her. Could she stand it? Being alone now? All alone, in this huge continent. Nowhere to go, no one who cared, no one at all. Her entire family was dead—she was completely alone. Despair welled up and clenched at her heart, but Maeve continued doggedly onward until at last she could go no more. She was about to curl up and go to sleep when she saw a spot of white amongst the dark vegetation. Curious, she dragged herself towards it. Now she could see what it was—a feline. A young kitten, brown and white. Maeve forced herself to go the last few feet.

"Who're you?" she croaked at the kitten. He looked at her and mewled in reply. With a weak and shaking hand, Maeve grabbed him and brought him close. "You are all alone too," she said, stroking his soft fur. "I'm alone, did you know that? But I'm not alone now. We've got each other, okay?" The kitten mewled again, snuggling into Maeve's arms. "Mekkle," she said, cuddling him. "You are Mekkle. I am Maeve, and we will be together always."