By dawn the Lantern Festival was over. Wren walked the rows along the river, pinching out flame after flame. Every paper lantern died at her touch but one. It hung at the water's edge, glowing a steady gold no breeze could shake. When she reached for it, the little wick leaned away from her fingers and tugged its string, like it wanted her to follow.

Wren didn't trust it. She cupped her hand and pinched the wick hard to snuff it. The flame slipped sideways through her fingers without burning her, then flared back up, brighter, almost insulted. Clearly this lantern was not going to be put out.