Wheeling Gull Isle but sleep won't set me free

A what? Maegi asked, brow scrunching together as she tried to figure out his question. The woman who lived here and taught me about plants called herself a 'healer.' And she supposed she might do the same, except. . . How exactly could she reconcile any good she had done with the immense harm she had caused?

Hurt on one side, help on the other—and the scale teetered precariously to the former. Healers were good; she was not good—

Maegi became aware of his eyes upon her in a way that didn't feel quite right, and finally drew herself up a little, tucking her scrawny haunches under herself to sit primly. It's not always like this, she said dryly. Not even in winter. It's been miserable. But it eventually turns to rain, and then the sun comes out.

And the plants grow, and with them, children. . .

She shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold.