"Who else was going to carry them?" She sets it down. Reaches for the next piece. "I didn't have a massive one-eyed wolf to do the heavy lifting."
"I'm not a pack mule."
"You pulled a cart full of chickens."
"That was different."
"How?"
"That was your fault."
Her mouth fights itself.
She takes a deep breath and stands, brushing off ash from her clothes. "Okay, that's enough." She looks around at the cottage. The doorframe. The arch standing alone against the sky.
"Let's go."
I shift. She climbs on.
Can't sleep.
I'm pacing my dwelling. Four steps, wall. Turn. Four steps, wall. Turn.
Her scent everywhere in my head. Moonbright and ash. Warmth still on my spine.
She's alone in her dwelling. With that broken bowl piece. Her face in the ruins.
Should let her grieve.
Should stay here.
Four steps. Wall. Turn. Four steps—
"You'll break the floor before dawn at that pace."
Orel.
She's leaning against the door frame, arms folded, watching me. Unhurried. Gray hair loose around her shoulders. Pine resin on her clothes.
"I'm fine."
"I didn't ask."
Steps inside without invitation. Sits on the bench against the wall.
"It's late, Orel."
"It is."
"So why are you here?"
"Because you're wearing a trench in your floor." She crosses her ankles. "And because her cottage burned today."
"I know her cottage burned today."
"I know you know." She lets the silence stretch. Waits.
"We're handling it."
