Dawnlark Plains a bird in the hand is worth a lotte in the bush

“You’re as real as I am, Lotte.”

The game had seemed fun — and harmless, and innocuous, and easy — at first. Lotte was by no means an adrenaline junkie, but the promise of action and excitement after the lackadaisical hum of day melting into day melting into day had been irresistible. Kitku had reared her head again — incorrigible, mischievous Kitku, who had all of Lotte’s coquettishness and wit but none of her mercy. Now, ambling across unfamiliar ground — and skirting several claimed territories in the process — Lotte asked herself why. Under Lærke’s capable command, his littlest sister’s personas had become beloved weapons — Kaniini was often used to distract or infiltrate; Solene was a supporting character meant to subtly influence and advise; but Kitku was a killer. “Kitku — !” was an oath or a plea or an incredulous question gasped from bloodied lips and severed by the cessation of breath — argent eyes could be very cold, sometimes — when there was absolutely no other way to reach the desired result.

Those who had known Kitku did not live.

Those who now knew her could not live.

There were several wolves who knew Lotte as Kitku the Daggersteel — and the thought of killing any of them was so abhorrent to her, bile rose up in her mouth to be spat bitterly from her frowning lips: “Miksi? Tyhmä, tyhmä tyttö!” She was known by some as Hämähäkki — the Spider — for her ability to weave stories like webbing around friends and foes alike. This was the first time she had gotten caught in her own trap, though, and she did not like it. Whether she should blame it on her improvisational mishap, her soft heart, or the wolves who had bewitched her so was unbeknownst to the soot-stockinged hoyden. She knew only that she needed to be far away from the sand, the sea, and the salt-crusted sequoias until she had each mask securely in hand once more.

“Remember the you that you are with me.”

“Mutta emme OLE yhdessä!” cried the girl in despair, casting her silver eyes — warm and anguished, Lotte’s eyes — heavenward before looking miserably down at her coal-colored toes. It was at this point that she realized the powder melting under her pads was snow and not sand — and in front of her was a mottled gray wolf whose pelage was as thick and lustrous as Lotte’s own. His attention seemed focused on an unkindness of ravens who were lolling about as gleefully as he was, and Lotte was so shocked at finding company in the midst of her accidental soliloquy that all of her masks clattered to the ground at her feet. A smile played about her lips — no matter her mood, joy was always readily within the girl’s grasp — as she observed his speckled underbelly, stars of dove-gray dappling dusty cream. “Rakeet, comrade,” she intoned in her low, rich alto.

“Remember the you that you are with me.”

“I am Lotte.”