He's somewhere. Ahead of me. Across the clearing or past it.
The hum doesn't tell me direction so much as occupied.
I open my eyes to dim light. The smell of him deep in the furs.
I sit up slow. The wrapping on my collarbone pulls against the cut, tight and clean—Kestria's work, neat tension, the knot tucked. I touch it once. Fine.
Empty pallet. Empty room. A clay cup of water on the low ledge by the door, set there sometime before he left, and Ipush off the bed and drink it standing. Same clothes from yesterday. Blood on the sleeve, dark and dry.
Through the door, into the cold.
The clearing is pre-dawn gray. Smoke smell still in the air from the night fires, banked low now. A wolf at the woodpile lifts his head when I step out of Keer's dwelling. Sees me, sees where I'm coming from, goes back to the wood.
I walk south. The goats are penned at the edge of the clearing. The female is awake at the rail, ears pricked. The male is asleep in the corner.
She makes a sound when she sees me. Not a bleat. A complaint.
"I know."
I haven't milked her in two days. Three, maybe. The poisoning, the cottage, the—yesterday. All of it.
"Sorry, lady."
She doesn't accept the apology.
Dara is already at the next station over—gloves on, mortar set up, working a fresh batch. She doesn't look up.
"You look terrible."
"Thank you. I can always count on you for the sweetest compliments."
"Did you sleep?"
"Some."
The pestle keeps moving. The smell of crushed moonbright drifts over—sharp, sweet, scratching the back of my throat. She's running a stronger batch than usual. My paste rotation's going to need rebalancing.
I lean my forehead against the goat's flank. She's warm. Coarse hair, the dense heat of her ribs. She shifts her weight to accommodate me.
Hands. Bucket.
The first stream hits the bottom, then the second. The sound is so specific—wood and milk. I haven't heard it in days.
She leans her shoulder against mine. Settled. Patient.
I shift on the stool. My hand lifts from her udder to herside, just resting, while I switch.
Movement.
Under my palm.
I freeze.
A second one. Distinct. A small body kicking against the wall of her side, right under where my hand is.
Oh.
"Dara."
