Jae dug at the trough with her finger, scraping more stubborn dirt off—only to feel her finger dip slightly, into a tiny depression in the stone. No wonder dirt built up there, where it had a little texture to cling to.

Though that was odd. The rest of the fountain was smooth and even. She finished cleaning the area and looked down at it. Nothing looked different at first, until she shuffled to the side and light from the sinking sun reflected off it. There was definitely something there in the base of the fountain, an area where the surface dipped just slightly.

She squinted. It was almost impossible to see, but she ducked back down and ran her hand across it, tilted her head to see how the sunlight’s reflection shifted. And there it was, finally taking shape in front of her, just as subtle as Gali’s soot-and-ash sketches on the walls inside—the impression of a hand, as if someone had pressed their palm into wet clay. In the middle of the print was another shape—a teardrop, etched even more lightly.

Jae traced her finger along the handprint, amazed at how subtle the whole marking was. She couldn’t think of anything it could be except a signature of whoever had built the fountain originally—but no builder would want their signature to be too subtle to spot. And it wasn’t like Gali’s drawings, designed to be washed off or drawn over, again and again. Even as subtle as it was, it would take generations for the handprint to wear away. It had been left there to last.

Jae pressed her palm against the print. It was barely larger than her own hand, and her fingers tingled a little.

She jerked her hand away. The tingling felt almost like the Curse—but the Curse always started in her head, right at the back of her skull. It sometimes spread and got worse, but she never allowed that to happen anymore. The pain spreading meant the Curse would take over her whole body soon, wrenching control away from her and forcing her to obey orders, no matter how hard she resisted. The agony when that happened was incredible, so bad that she’d heard stories of Closest who’d passed out, and their bodies had carried on working anyway.

Jae shuddered and shook her hand out. The tingling stopped.

She went back to work, grabbing her sack and stooping to pull weeds. They were nasty, thorny, almost as bad as the cactus that loomed at the back wall. She plucked them carefully, one by one, and shoved them into the dirty sack. As she picked up the sack, she found another weed, still growing between the rocks. She yanked it, and one of the thorns sank into the tender skin of her palm.

Biting down a yelp, she dropped the weed and the sack both. Her palm was bleeding, damp spots blotting her brown skin, and her whole hand had started tingling again. She shook it, sending a few more droplets trickling out, then pressed her other thumb against the wound. It was only a small scrape, the bleeding would stop in a moment—

She whipped her head around and stared at the fountain. The mark was a hand, and a droplet, but maybe not a teardrop. Maybe it was something else. Water would make sense—it was a fountain, after all—but maybe…

The tingling in her hand felt like a hundred thorns piercing her, and her breath came in shallow gasps. She stared down at the empty fountain basin, at the handprint she’d never noticed before, and wondered how many times she’d cleaned the fountain and never seen the mark.

She hesitated for a moment, heartbeat echoing loudly in her ears, then pressed her bloody hand down against the etching.

Pain exploded inside her head, a sudden onslaught from the Curse instead of its usual warning pressure. She screamed, the noise sharp against the stillness of the courtyard, as the whole world went white, bright flashes and flickers like sparks—

“It’s the small touches that count,” Janna said. She laughed, staring at the gleaming stone. She had already given it shape and linked it to the streambed they’d built under the house. It was nearly finished, except for a final touch. Hovering in other-vision, she could see all four of the elements’ energies and the whole house, as if she floated above it. Seen like this, the way a mage would see it, the fountain’s design was much clearer—four circles, one to represent each element, all locking together in the center.

Janna drew on the elements’ energies and concentrated on the fountain, building the image more clearly in her mind. Not just the shape this time, but the texture, the smoothness. She saw it gleaming, she focused, and then she poured the energy into the fountain until it glowed almost as brightly in real vision as in her other-vision. Finally she linked that to the water that was now beginning to gather at its base. The link was a simple binding that would give the magic permanence, tying the magical energy to the physical fountain itself. Now, as long as there was water to pull from, the fountain would shine.

Tandan shielded his eyes until the glow died down to something more subtle. “I think you have better things to do with your magic these days.”

“I don’t have many days left now, so why shouldn’t I use them for something frivolous and beautiful? Anyway, this is what people will remember me for,” she said.

Tandan scoffed. He’d always been impatient. “They’ll remember you for creating the Well.”

“The Well wouldn’t exist without all of us,” she corrected. “And when it is done, it will belong to all of us. But this fountain—this is mine alone. And I’m giving it to you, to remember me.”

He scowled again, but she recognized the sadness he was trying to mask. “It doesn’t have to be you, then, Mother. If the Well belongs to all of us, then someone else—”

“No,” she said. “It isn’t my Well, but it is my responsibility. It’s an honor, and I would never ask this of anyone else. How could I?”

“If it’s an honor, then someone else will volunteer. We can’t lose you. I can’t.”

“Oh, Tandan.” She opened her arms, and even though he was a grown man and embarrassed by his own emotions, he stepped into her embrace. She held him for a minute, knowing this was hard on him—harder than it was on her, by far. “This is how it has to be. If I do this, it will bind the Well until the Bloodlines die out, and you know they never will. Not with you and Mirrad going on like this.”

“Mother!” He backed away, horrified, and she couldn’t help but laugh. She would be leaving them all behind soon, but she was grateful that crafting the Well had taken long enough for her to see her grandchildren, another generation of the Bloodlines that would bind the Well’s power. With so many families making up the Bloodlines, the Well would last forever.