At over two years old, Marlowe was finally starting to grow into herself in more ways than one. It seemed like only yesterday that she’d been all long legs, oversized ears, and awkward inelegance. Over the past year, however, the rest of her had grown to match the length of her limbs. She was still a lanky creature — maybe even tomboyish in the flat wiriness of her muscles — but Bacardi and Keating’s daughter was no longer a child. At least, not physically. The thought of leaving her parents was still too painful to consider, so Bacardi and Keating’s daughter lingered in the neverland between childhood and independence. But she was finding her courage and confidence more with each passing day, when she wandered gradually further from the herd — like a chick beginning to leave the safety of its nest.

But no fledgling was content to hop along the ground forever. Sooner or later, every bird yearned to spread their wings and fly.

Giggling, the red dun watched a hare zigzag across her path and took up chase. Together they veered off the faint trail and into the trees, splashing across a stream and then scrabbling up a steep bank. Breathless, Marlowe lurched up to the top and continued straight, though she could no longer see her quarry among the thick carpet of ferns. Perhaps the creature had leapt into a clump of brush and froze there, waiting for its strange pursuant to pass. But the girl no longer ran for the chase; she was galloping for the sheer pleasure of feeling her body surge over the ground. For the joy of the wind combing through her copper-red mane, and the wonder of feeling her heart beat in time with her hooves.

Tossing her head, Marlowe kicked her heels and laughed again. Her strides gradually slowed, the breaths panting in and out of her lungs when she finally stopped. Somehow, her play had carried her into a large clearing — no, it was more than just a clearing, the young woman recognized. It was a field dotted with small purple and white flowers. The trees out here were few and far between, leaving the land looking strangely naked — and Marlowe feeling exposed. But when she tilted her head up, she saw nothing but sky. Endless and blue as her eyes, with white woolen clouds drifting slowly across its canvas. It made her feel as small as an acorn lying at the base of an oak. It made her worry that she might drift away, too — and yet at the same time, it made her feel free in a way the Forest never could.

Moving her limbs again, the painted girl ventured forward with delicate strides. As if she feared to crush any one of those flowers scattered throughout the grass. As if she thought that by creeping along, she could escape the notice of the world that she suddenly felt more a part of than she’d ever been before in her life. As if — by leaving the Forest — she’d fallen into it just as a part of her feared that she might fall up into that endless sky.