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Fast. The newly arrived Saxons had already started to call Y Wyddfa, whose icy ridges towered over everything, Snow Hill or Snowdon. Likewise, people were now calling this region, long known as Gwynedd, the country of Wales. But to call it a country at all was to imply a kind of unity that did not really exist. Given the number of travelers and dialects that passed through just our little village every day, Wales seemed to me less a country than a way station.
    Following the path down to the mill house, I saw the last traces of moonlight touching the slopes of Y Wyddfa. The sounds of the waking village melted into the splashy clatter of the river flowing under the stone bridge by the mill. A frog bellowed, somewhere by the mill house, the only building in the village made of real brick.
    Without warning, a quiet voice within me whispered, An owl is coming.
    I whirled about just in time to see the square head and massive brown wings sail past me as fast as the wind and as silent as death. Two seconds later it dropped into the grass behind the mill house, its talons squeezing the life out of its prey.
    Stoat for supper. I grinned to myself, pleased that I had somehow known that the owl was approaching, and that its invisible quarry was a stoat. How did I know? I had no idea. I simply knew, that’s all. And I supposed that any reasonably observant person would have known as well.
    More and more, though, I wondered. I did sometimes seem a step ahead of other people in sensing what was about to happen. This talent, if you could call it a talent, had only just appeared in the last few weeks, so I didn’t even begin to understand it. And I hadn’t shared it with Branwen, or with anyone else. It could be nothing more than a string of lucky guesses. But if, in fact, it was something more, it might at least provide some entertainment. Or even prove useful in a pinch.
    Only the day before, I had seen some village boys chasing one another with imaginary swords. For a brief moment, I longed to be one of them. Then the group’s leader, Dinatius, spied me and pounced on me before I could get away. I had never liked Dinatius, who had spent the years since his mother’s death as the smith’s servant. He struck me as mean, stupid, and quick-tempered. But I had tried never to offend him, less out of kindness than the fact that he was much older and much larger than I—or any other boy in the village. More than once, I had seen him struck by the smith’s powerful hand for shirking his duties, and just as often I had seen Dinatius do the same to someone smaller. Once he badly burned the arm of another boy who had dared to question his Roman ancestry.
    All this ran through my mind the day before as I struggled to get away from him. Then I chanced to see a low-flying gull overhead. I pointed to the bird and cried, “Look! Treasure from the sky!” Dinatius turned his face skyward at just the moment that the bird released an especially pungent sort of treasure—which splatted him right in the eye. While Dinatius cursed and tried to wipe his face, the other boys laughed, and I escaped.
    Smiling, I thought of yesterday’s close call. For the first time, I wondered whether I might possess a talent—a power—even more precious than predicting events. Suppose, just suppose . . . I could actually control events. Make something happen. Not with my hands, my feet, or my voice. With nothing but my thoughts.
    How exciting! It was probably just another May dream. But what if it was more? I would give it a try.
    As I approached the stone bridge over the river, I knelt beside a low, tightly cupped flower. Concentrating all my thoughts on the flower, I grew oblivious to everything else. The chilled air, the crying lambs, the smith’s noises, all faded away.
    I studied the flower’s lavender hue, touched on the east by the golden light of the emerging sun. Minuscule hairs, wearing droplets of dew, embroidered the edges of each petal, while a tiny