Dressed.
Oh, thank goodness.
"Show me which ones."
We fall into it.
Something moves at the field's edge. Small, brown, twitching. Vole. No—shrew. Pointed nose, tiny black eyes, absolutely furious about something.
"Shrew."
Keer doesn't look up.
"Shrews are always furious. I treated one once. Found it in a bramble near the cottage with a thorn through its foot, and it bit me six times during the extraction. Six. Drew blood on four of them. Worst patient I've ever had."
His hands keep moving. Picking. Steady.
"I let it go. It circled back and bit me a seventh time. Which I almost respected. Shrews have a metabolic rate so high they'll starve to death in hours if they stop eating—their entire existence is rage and hunger and the absolute refusal to hold still, which honestly—"
"You stopped."
I look down. My hand's frozen above the next flower.
"Right. Flowers."
I pick the flower.
"Why are you doing this?" It’s out before I mean it to be.
His hands don't stop. Neither do mine.
"You treated half my pack."
"That's my job."
"You saved my sister."
"Also my job."
"You built things. Taught people. Fed them." His voice is quiet. "You brought chickens."
My mouth curves. "The chickens were a practical decision."
"You named the rooster after me."
"The resemblance is uncanny."
He smiles. Small. Real. "You didn't have to do any of it."
"Someone had to."
"You chose to. That's different."
I focus on the flower in my hand. Twist. Drop. Reach.
"Others should learn to make the paste." I pick another. "I need to teach them. Properly. Not just the basics I started with Dara."
"Why?"
