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At dinner yesterday, I arrived late and found him guarding the last heel of bread from Ziku.

“She’s here,” the fox said. “Stop looking at me.”

Daurek passed me the bread. It was still warm.

Across the table, Reivaka was teaching three barklings to spit the pale seeds from their fruit into a clay cup. She missed from six inches away.

“That one was for distance,” she told them.

I laughed so hard that I had to put down my bread. Daurek waited until I’d recovered, then pushed the butter toward me.

After dinner, Ziku asked whether I’d unpacked.

“No. Why?”

“Reivaka thinks you’ll unpack. I said you’d leave the shelf empty.”

“My shelf is still empty.”

Ziku began to smile.

“If you’re starting a wager, at least let me bet,” I told him.

“That would give you an unfair advantage.”

“It’s my shelf.”

“Exactly.”

He went off before I could stop him.

This morning, Daurek leaves for the northern groves. He tells me at breakfast that he won’t be back until late.

Ziku brings a council notice with the morning post. The review is scheduled in three days. I read the date twice, then put the notice with my marriage papers. Soon I’ll know when I can travel freely. I still want that, even though leaving Daurek has become harder to picture.

By dinner, I’ve saved three things to tell him.

I tell Reivaka about the trader who tried to sell me a kettle with a crack in it. Ziku says he would have charged extra for the opening. I laugh, eat my supper, and keep looking toward the door.

Daurek told me he’d be late. Looking won’t bring him back.

In my room, I start a letter to Asha. I get as far as telling her about the kettle before I hear footsteps outside and turn toward the entrance.

Two keepers pass, arguing about whose turn it is to fetch the breakfast flour.

I miss him. He’s only been gone for a day.

I put the pen down and go to the courtyard.

The lamps beneath the covered walk are lit. I sit on the low wall with my coat pulled around me. When Daurek comes through the northern arch, I stand too quickly to pretend I came down for anything else.

“You’re still up,” he says.

“I was writing.”

He stops beside me. I reach for his arm before I’ve decided what to say.

“Have you eaten?” I ask.