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“So you’re human weedkiller and Miracle Gro?”

Though vaguely aware I was missing a joke in that, I replied seriously, “Those so-called weeds are an important part of the forest. I’d only kill them if they were throwing it out of balance.”

To my immense relief, Red smiled, though his eyebrows stayed aloft. Shook his head slightly and ran his gaze up and down me. Then he said, “No. I know.”

For some reason, it made me flush even harder than him saying I was wonderful. I cleared my throat, stood, and stretched to try and calm my blood. Then I went to Red and held out a hand to help him up.

He let go of the tree and accepted. His hand was about the same size as mine, but his fingers were thinner and darker, more elegant. Thankfully, it was warm. When I made to let him go, he held onto me, pressing me into his other hand. Though he was only a few inches shorter, he looked up at me, all sincere eyes. “I really didn’t mean it.”

I flushed again, perhaps feeling a little too seen, now. I squeezed his hand though, grateful that he was willing to touch it. “You’re not wrong, is the thing. I know this is all new to you. You’re new to me, too.”

It seemed he hesitated before he let me go. But perhaps it was wishful thinking.

I never thought of myself as desperate, not once in my long years in this forest. Not to be understood, and certainly not to be touched. Had I always been? Or was it just him that I wanted?

He was quiet as we returned to the deer path toward the valley. I kept an eye on him, but he followed diligently, watching the forest around us with open admiration that set me at ease. It was hard not to admire his resilience; with bruising up his side, scratches on his face, and the smell of Wulfric’s acrid fur in recent memory, he didn’t have the best associations with the forest. Yet he didn’t seem afraid, only curious.

I saw the familiar path through his eyes, or something very like, and it was illuminating. The slanting morning light through the canopy and how the small particles of dying leaves and dust motes danced in it. The fading autumn colors in their last blaze of glory before falling to their ultimate fate; the evergreens rising up beside them like a reminder that it would only get colder, sleepier, darker. The thin scent of woodsmoke from my far-off chimney, and the occasional lick of a sharp lake breeze against my face. If it had been a century, was it any wonder I took these things for granted sometimes?

When we came to the spot where I’d found him yesterday, browning blood still sprinkled the ground from the blow I’d landed on Wulfric. My fingers tensed around the haft of my axe; I wished I’d hit him harder.

Red winced as he ducked on one knee. He glanced around as if he could learn something from his own imprint in the wet leaves, then put his hand on the ground. Closed his eyes. I was about to ask if he was all right, but he opened his eyes suddenly and pointed toward the valley. “That way. There’s a dead tree down there somewhere. I left my bag inside.”

I knew of a few that fit the description, so I led him down the gentle slope and in the direction of the first one. Then the second—which proved to be the correct one. He retrieved a damp bag from inside what was left of the tree and slung it over his shoulder, so it covered his rump. Then he winced and clutched at his side.

“That’s probably enough for one day,” I said quietly.

He nodded, jaw clenching and unclenching so the tiny red scratches on his cheek moved with it. He’d handled the pain well so far, but it must’ve been intensifying. We should’ve waited another day to venture out, but he was insistent.

I held out my hand. “I’ll carry it for you.”

He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

He glared. Adjusted the bag and winced again.

I raised an eyebrow at him.

He sighed and took off the bag, which I accepted and settled over my shoulder.

“How far is it to the hilltop ruins? And the little stone house—she talks about that a lot.”

“Takes a few hours.” I started back toward the deer path, but slowly.

He fell in step, and I matched his shorter stride.

“I probably couldn’t have done it today,” he admitted.

“No. Probably not.”

“You’re sure he’s not here? That Amma’s safe? Or as safe as she was before he arrived, anyhow?”

“I’m sure. And Wulfric is a creature of habit. Most creatures who come and go from these lands are.”

“I’m sorry. I know I said that, but—I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right, Red. I wish I’d killed him, too.” I felt a little better for having said it.