When the sparkling Light woke me up, I knew something was wrong. The Boy had promised to keep away from the nursery as long as I continued to tell stories. I had. I told stories every night, part of me engaged, part of me thinking about the Boy and his sparkling light hidden somewhere outside the window.

He had a temper, the Boy, but I did not think of him as really dangerous. At least, not purposefully dangerous. It was what he might do unintentionally that worried me. Or what he might let the Light get away with. That was why I had to keep telling the stories.

Tonight, something was wrong. I followed the Light to the window, careful not to wake my brothers, and wondered if when I reached it I would tumble to my death. I had forgotten that the Boy’s favorite stories were the ones about him, you see, and just how angry the Boy was. So angry, in fact, that he had pulled me into the Deal rather harshly. It was a kind of blackmail, I suppose. Maybe he was just sad.

Sad, and angry that I forgot how to fly.