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do. If there was going to be a baby brother, she was going to spend more time begging her father for those things she wanted. She would redouble her efforts to be good. She would do everything she had been asked and some things she hadn’t, all so that her father would note what a good and obedient daughter she was. And she would take good care to ask him for those things she wanted—the pony (oh, a pony, she was almost sick with wanting one!), the lessons in sword and bow—at times when he was feeling well content. She would think very hard about convincing arguments why she should have these things, too.
    That way, if there was a brother coming, she would have secured her booty before the baby claimed the king’s attention.

    Making the feather skirt for the doll was easy; just a bit of string to bind the feathers around doll’s waist. The feather cloak, however, was proving a bit more problematic. She was old enough to be trusted with a bone needle of her very own, but sewing the feathers to a bit of rag was not working out as well as she had thought. She sat at old Mag’s feet with the feathers in her lap, the needle and cloth in her hand, and her tongue in the corner of her mouth as she concentrated, but the feathers just pulled out of the stitches she made. Finally she put the needle back in its keeper and gave up on the idea; the feather skirt was pretty enough. And after a moment of thought, she took the feathers she would have used for the cloak and went to the bedroom. In a corner she found Little Gwen’s doll and bound a similar skirt on it. Not out of kindness, out of self-defense. The moment Little Gwen saw the skirt, she would want one for her doll, and if she did not get one—she would hardly trouble to make one for herself—she would ruin Gwen’s the first chance she got. It had happened too many times before; Gwen had made flower crowns and skirts for her doll in the spring and summer, and Little Gwen had torn the fragile garments off in a fury when no one would make them for her poppet. Gwen had made a bow and arrow for her doll, and Little Gwen had stepped on them out of spite. Gwen had made a horse out of straw for her doll and Little Gwen had thrown it into the fire. Just for good measure, Gwen braided the yarn hair of Little Gwen’s doll and stuck some remaining feathers in the braids. She thought it looked ridiculous, but it was something Little Gwen’s doll had that Gwen’s wouldn’t, and that would satisfy her fractious younger sibling.
    Wrapping her own doll carefully in a scrap of hide, and putting her away, Gwen considered what she could do to curry favor with her father. What would he like? What would he notice?
    Perhaps a nice basket of nuts. She knew of one or two spots that hadn’t been picked over yet, mostly because tangled underbrush full of nettles and briars made the trees hard to get to. But she was small and clever about getting into and out of such spots; she got a sack and trudged out into the sunny afternoon.
    At the door, she stood considering what she should do, as she watched the horse keepers exercising her father’s famous beasts; the old men ran the horses around them in circles on the end of long tethers. She watched them pacing at the end of their leads, their muscles rippling under their rough winter coats, their necks arched, and their eyes bright. Once again, she felt sick with longing for one of them. You didn’t ride these horses to exercise them, not if you were old and not as agile as you used to be, or crippled. You needed every bit of your wits and strength to handle them. They were warhorses, trained for war, pulling the dangerous war chariots or charging into the fray, and not for casual riding. All horses were beautiful, all horses were desirable, but these—oh, these—these were kings and queens among horses. When she watched them, all her desire for the Power faded.
    Finally she turned away. These horses were not for her, not yet anyway. And if