Yosifae woke up on the cobblestones of Bonesborough barefoot in his sleep clothes, his thin fairy wings pressed flat to his back in panic. One moment he had been asleep in a quiet human bed, the next the Boiling Isles sky was bruised violet above him, a cart full of bellowing snails nearly ran him down, and a crowd of witches and demons yelled at him to get out of the road. He bolted, small and shaking, and folded himself into an alley behind crates that smelled of brine, wings dimming as he cried.