1. Easy Work
"It's easy work, and you'll thank me for it someday."
Oh, how Migelo regretted those words. He peered out the window. He couldn't see the Estersand from here, but the acrid scent of the desert pervaded the city, and he could imagine the jutting cliffs, the hungry eyes of wolves.
"Relax," Tomaj said. "Vaan's seventeen now. He can't be your errand-boy forever."
Migelo's ears flattened. "Age is not the issue. It's his impulsiveness that concerns me."
"He may surprise you. Street kids don't live long without being clever. Still . . ." Tomaj frowned, "you'd probably better check on him."
2. The Green Word
The leaves whispered with a hundred tiny voices, a counterpoint to the nearby stream's gurgling. Jote basked in the Wood's song, peaceful, placid . . .
A strand of dissonant notes disrupted the harmony. Her ear twitched as the sweeping melody took on a resentful edge. Something unwelcome had entered the Wood. Humes? Now that she was listening, she could hear the rapid beat of their music among the trees, but that was not what stirred the Wood's anger. Jote recognized notes of abandonment, grief, rage. She knew of only one who could create such disharmony in this place. "Fran."
3. Stitches
Vaan sat on the edge of his bed, deftly sewing a hole in Penelo's spare shirt. She watched him work, fascinated. Each stitch was straight and neat, as good as a tailor's, and when he was done, he stowed his supplies to his pack and returned the garment.
"So," Penelo said, "when exactly did you learn to sew?"
"We're orphans. The first thing you learn is that you've got to watch out for yourself." Vaan rolled up his pants, revealing a wound stitched shut with wire. "Besides, it's cheaper than having a healer do it."
"Oh, Vaan . . ."