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Alighting on the store roof, Veronica surveyed the area. “Okay!” she said brightly. “Maeve, meet retail therapy; retail therapy, meet Maeve! We’re going to drop in through the roof hatch, in and out, avoid the cameras. Easy peasy!”

“I need new glasses and you need something to wear that doesn’t scream quasi-religious cult refugee,” she continued, happy with relief at leaving the caves behind forever. “And listen, you and I are going to get actual haircuts as soon as humanly possible, I’ll tell you what. And then—“

She turned to see Maeve hugging herself, shut down. Oops. Too much, too fast. “—Oh, sorry, sweetie,” she said, abashed, “I guess this is kind of a lot for you. C’mere.”

She drew the blue gargoyle into a hug. “Y’know, it’s still not too late for you to go back. You gave up everything for me.”

Maeve’s sadness flared into anger. “Stones, Veronica, stop telling me what to do! You didn’t corrupt me because you don’t control me! I made my own decision and you’re just going to have to accept it.”

Typical Waterborn bossiness. “That’s my girl!” Veronica said affectionately.

She pulled her phone with its pink sparkly devil’s-pitchfork case from her teal shoulder bag and held up the front-facing camera. “I wanna document this! Maeve’s first moments out in the world! Gimme excitement! Gimme anticipation!”

Maeve hid her face in her hand. “Nope, that’s still anger. Growwwwing anger and resentment. Little bit ragey,” Veronica teased.

“Please just stop,” Maeve said tightly.