Page 5
I turn my head. There’s a human sitting on a stool next to the workbench, a tiny old woman with white braids and glasses on the end of her nose, holding a chisel. She’s looking at me like I’m a chair she just finished and she’s checking if I wobble.
“Did you do this?” My voice comes out deep and rough, like it’s been in the ground for a while. Which… fair.
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Somebody ordered you.”
I stare at her. “Ordered me?”
“Mm-hm.” She sets her chisel down and wipes her hands on her apron. “You were the right wood.” She shrugs. “Storm took you down, so I went and got you.”
I think about that for a second. The storm, the fall, the black… and now this. A second life. I didn’t ask for it, but okay. I’ll take it.
I swing my legs off the workbench and stand. The floor creaks under my feet, and my head almost hits the beams. I’m huge! The old woman barely comes up to my stomach, and she doesn’t look impressed at all.
“Careful with my ceiling.”
I look down at her. “Your ceiling is too low.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re too tall.”
I roll my eyes. “I was a tree, lady.”
“And now you’re a man standing naked on my floor. Here, put these on.”
She tosses me a pile of clothes. Pants and a shirt, both enormous. I look at them, then at her.
“You’re bossy for a fly.”
She snorts. “And you’re rude for a piece of firewood. Get dressed.”
I feel my lips twitch a little.
Getting dressed takes a minute because buttons are a stupid invention. Whoever came up with buttons never had to use them with hands this size.
“What’s your name?” I ask, mostly because humans seem to like that question.
“Mother Wren.”
“Hm.”
“And yours is Rowan.”
I frown at her. “That’s not a name. That’s what I am.”
“Same thing.” She picks her chisel back up. “You’re welcome for that, too.”
Rowan. Fine. I’ve been called worse, mostly by woodpeckers.
Something hoots above my head. There’s a tiny wooden owl sitting on the shelf, staring at me with big carved eyes.
“Is that thing alive?”
“He’s nosy,” Mother Wren replies, like that answers my question.
The owl turns its head all the way around. Hm.
