"Your name," Wren says, still holding the open box. "And why you sound relieved it's gone." The old woman looks at her the way experienced people look at questions that are finally the right ones. "Elsin," she says, as if the name is a small, old thing she doesn't need to polish. "As for the stone —" A glance at the Ember, then at the sun-sigil pressed into Wren's borrowed breastplate. "The sun marks its keepers. I was never meant to be one — only stubborn enough to outlast the last who was, and careful enough to keep the Ember lit until the next came." A pause. "I did not know if a next would come." The branch shifts again, deeper in the Thornwood. This time, Elsin's head turns — and the patience goes clean out of her river-weed eyes.