Her spade glanced off the edge of a rock, ringing high in her ears. She grimaced, grasped at the rock with her bare hands, and yanked it free. A worm came with it, squirming with the discomfort of a creature unused to sunlight. She picked it up between thumb and forefinger, and then she tossed it over her shoulder.
Someone made a noise behind her.
Ryn looked up.
Her brother stood over her, the worm caught in his ink-stained fingers.
“Sorry,” said Ryn. “I didn’t hear you coming.”
Gareth gave her a flat stare, walked a few steps to her left, and dropped the worm into the grass. “It never occurred to you to put the worm back, did it?”
“Usually if something crawls out of a grave, I take an axe to it,” said Ryn. “That worm should be grateful.”
His frown cut fresh lines around his mouth. Despite being the younger of the two, he carried the weariness of an old man. “You needn’t bother with the digging, Ryn.”
A snort escaped her. “Because you’re going to do it?”
Gareth’s clothes were impeccable. Not a smudge of dirt upon his tunic, nor a stray blade of grass on his boots.
“Because,” he said, and his voice was heavier, “Master Turner came by this morning and informed us that our services will not be needed for Mistress Turner. They’ve decided to burn the body.”
For a heartbeat, she remained in place—caught between her task and the knowledge that it was no longer necessary. Her hands yearned to return to the digging.
She rocked back on her heels and began rubbing her dirty hands on her leggings. Gareth made a pained noise at the streaks of grime, but she didn’t pay him any mind. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”
“That grave was our last hope.” Gareth took a step back. “We were counting on Turner’s ball-penny to get us through the winter.” A breath rattled through his clenched teeth. “Come on. Ceridwen will be finished making supper by now.”
Ryn rose to her full height. She was as tall as her brother, something that had always made her smile and him frown. Tall and lanky as a sapling, her mam had once said. And as graceful as a drunken colt, her father had added fondly. “I saw a bone house this morning,” she said. “Caught a glimpse of it. I went for my axe, but the sun was up before I returned. It must have fallen in the tall grass, because I couldn’t find it.” She shrugged. “I’ll wait for nightfall. Let it find me.”
“A bone house?” A crease appeared between Gareth’s heavy brows.
“Yes,” she said. “I know, I know. You’re going to tell me that bone houses don’t leave the forest. That I’ll probably just scare a vagrant half to death.”
Gareth frowned. “No,” he said. “I—I believe you. It’s just that’s the second one.” He had their mother’s eyes—the brown of healthy earth. And he had a way of looking through a person that made Ryn want to hold her secrets tightly to her chest. “They never used to leave the forest,” he said.
It had the ring of an accusation and Ryn crossed her arms. “I haven’t gone into the forest.” The words were sharp. “Well, only the outskirts.” Part of her wanted to remind him that the reason they still had food in their larder was because of her willingness to flirt with the edges of the forest.
“All right,” he said. “Take care of the bone house. But when Ceri cries because I’m not good at telling her bedtime stories, that’s on you.”
“Just read her your accounts ledger,” said Ryn. “That’ll put her right to sleep.” She softened the words with a grin and a clap on the arm.
Gareth winced, his eyes on where she had dirtied his shirt. “Just don’t get yourself killed, all right?” He began to walk away, but he called over his shoulder: “And if you do die, that’s still no excuse to be late for breakfast.”
Colbren’s graveyard was set outside the village proper. When Ryn was young, she’d asked her father why they buried the dead so far from the living. She still remembered his broad fingers carding through her hair, a smile on his mouth as he answered. “Death’s something of a frightening thing to most people. They like a bit of distance between them and eternity. And besides, the dead deserve a spot of privacy.”
The graveyard had been built before the Otherking fled the isles. As such, the old protections remained: Gorse grew at the edges of the graveyard, thick with yellow flowers. The thorny shrubs hid iron rods that had been driven into the ground. Gorse and iron. It would not stop a human from entering the graveyard, but it would stop other things.
The light faded from the sky, falling behind mist-shrouded mountains.
Ryn saw the familiar form of a man walking along the road leading from the village. His shoulders were bent by years of hard labor, and he carried a rusty sword. The damp, overgrown grass brushed at her fingertips as she approached him. “That looks a bit heavy for you, Mr. Hywel.”
Old Hywel snorted. “Been carrying heavier things than this since before your parents were born, Ryn. Leave well enough alone.” He spoke with a gruff fondness.
“Why does a miller need a sword?” she asked.
He grunted, and there was a shrewd edge to his words. “You know why.”
She grimaced. “They haven’t been at your chickens, have they?”
“No, no.” Hywel huffed. “My chickens can fend for themselves.” He slid her a look. “Your brother went past here a few minutes ago,” he said. “Looked a bit out of sorts, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“If Gareth weren’t worrying about something, he wouldn’t be my brother.”
Hywel nodded. “Any word from your uncle?”
It was a question folded into another question, a worry that neither of them would say aloud.
Ryn shook her head. “We haven’t heard from Uncle. But you know how travel is from here to the city.”
The loose skin around Hywel’s mouth sagged in disapproval. “Never been, myself. Don’t trust those city types.”
There were those in Colbren who had never left the village. They might as well have grown up from the rocky soil like trees; they seemed to draw their lifeblood from the land, and they would not be uprooted.
“How is your sister?” Hywel asked.
“Likely baking something that would shame the finest cooks.” When she’d left the house that morning, Ceri had already been up to her elbows in flour.
Hywel smiled, showing a missing tooth. “Those rowanberry preserves she made… there wouldn’t happen to be any of those left, would there?”
There were, in fact. Ryn thought of the berries spread over sweet grilled cakes, and her stomach cramped with hunger.
“Our roof has a leak,” she said. “Would be a shame to see all my sister’s fine baking go to waste the next time it rains.”
Hywel’s grin widened. “Ah, that’s how it is. You’re a sharp one, Ryn. All right—two jars of preserves for the roof repairs and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
She nodded, not precisely pleased so much as satisfied. Trading food for favors had become something rather common of late. She let out a breath and pressed her fingers to her temple. She could feel a headache building, stress forming a knot behind her jaw.