"Try me."
Kestria wheezes from the ground.
"Are you going to get up?" Melori asks her.
"No."
"We have moonbright to pick."
"I know. In a minute." Kestria drags herself upright, leaves in her hair, tears on her cheeks. "Give me a minute."
"You're both useless."
Neither of them looks up.
I adjust the strap across my shoulder.
"The goat bit my strap."
"Which one?"
"The male."
"Did he get through?"
"He's chewing on it right now."
"Push his head down."
"I am not—"
"Push his head down, Keer."
I push the goat's head down. Firm, not rough. Hold it for a second. The goat bleats once—indignant, short—and stops chewing.
I will never speak of this.
"See?" She grins. "He respects you now."
"The goat doesn't respect me."
"He stopped chewing."
"Because I shoved his face."
"That's goat respect. Take the win."
I face forward. Start walking. Smoother. The goats settle. The cart steadies. The only sound is Kestria behind me, still making that controlled wheeze, and Melori's footsteps, and the chickens roosting in their cages.
Her stride. It changes when the path narrows. The soft sound of the basket bumping her hip. Her breath catching when she laughs at something Kestria whispers.
I track her with my ears.
The forest closes in. Older trees. Thicker undergrowth. The path narrows until we're single file, cart barely fitting. She's behind me. The back of my neck knows it.
Then the smell hits.
Sharp. Green. Moonbright. Thick enough to taste. It burns in my sinuses the way it always does—that low ache wolves feel near the flowers. We avoid these fields.
