Ryn turned.
“You’ve got iron, right?” asked Morwenna. “At your home?”
“Of course,” said Ryn. There was a horseshoe nailed beside her home’s door frame, just like all the older village houses.
“Well, if you need more, come here. I’ve always got scraps.”
It was a gesture of good will. Even if Morwenna didn’t believe, even if she mocked and smiled, she’d offer Ryn what she could. Ryn gave her a deeper nod this time—an acknowledgment of the offer. “Thank you.”
Just before she turned to go, she saw the apprentice begin to shove the canvas wrappings and their contents into the forge. Sparks flew into the air and Ryn hastened out of the room before the flames could truly catch. Burning the cursed dead was a kindness—but it also smelled rank.
The Red Mare was a large home that had been turned into a tavern. The upstairs rooms were for rent, and the downstairs consisted of an eatery and a tavern. Mostly, people went to hear the town’s gossip.
“Go on in.” Ryn nodded to the door. “Ask for Enid—tell her that I sent you and she’ll charge you a reasonable fee.”
Enid had always been at the Red Mare. She had always been red-cheeked and smiling, always widowed, always with frizzy gray hair. She would probably take one look at Ellis and decide the lad needed fattening up.
“Thank you,” said Ellis. “I appreciate you bringing me here—and, again, for saving me from that… thing.”
Ryn held out her hand, palm up.
Ellis smiled, took her hand, and shook it. His fingers were colder and softer than hers, lacking the calluses that creased her palm. When he released her, Ryn’s hand remained in place. Ellis stared, then understanding lit behind his eyes.
“Ah, right.” He fished about in his pack and came up with several coins. He dropped them into her palm.
She nodded, pocketed the coins, and walked away. “I’d keep to the roads, if I were you. At least until you find better maps.”
She heard his snort—and she smiled to herself. But then she picked up her pace, and as she strode through the village, all thoughts of Ellis faded away.
Her home was on the edge of Colbren. It looked like the other old houses—wooden walls, thatched roof, and smoke rising from the chimney. There was a large yard where they kept the chickens and the single goat they could afford. The chickens were merrily strolling about the house, searching for food in the tangled grasses.
It felt as if a fist loosened around her heart when she pushed the door open and stepped inside. She savored the small familiarities: Woodsmoke, clean clothes hanging up to dry, the elaborate wooden spoons her father had carved for her mother hanging on the wall, and the goat—
The goat.
There was a goat standing in the hallway.
She looked at Ryn, opened her mouth, and bleated a greeting.
“Ceri,” said Ryn, her voice rising. “Why is your goat in the house?”
There came the clatter of metal, a curse, and then Gareth stumbled out of the kitchen. He wore an apron and carried a cooking spoon in one hand. He waved the spoon at the goat. “Oh, not again. Shoo! Get out!”
The goat gave him a flat stare.
“Ceri, your goat’s in the house again,” called Gareth.
No answer.
“Ceridwen!” This time Gareth bellowed so loudly that both Ryn and the goat jumped. “Get your goat out of the house!”
Footsteps thudded across the floor, and Ceri came rushing into the room, hair ribbons streaming out behind her. “Good morning,” said Ryn, a trifle drily. “I see things have gone well in my absence.”
Ceri took gentle hold of the goat and began ushering her toward the front door. “Good morning!”
“How come Ryn gets a ‘good morning’ and I get a ‘what’s for breakfast,’” Gareth said. He still held the cooking spoon, and for the first time, Ryn noticed the batter that clung to his fingers. He must have been making griddle cakes.
“Because your idea of telling me a story last night was to get out your accounts ledger,” said Ceri, grinning. As she strode by, tugging the goat, she rose to tiptoe and dropped a kiss on her brother’s cheek. He sighed, waving her off as he retreated toward the kitchen.
There was an ease to Ceri’s affection that Ryn envied. She kissed everything from the chickens to freshly baked loaves of bread. For Ryn, kisses were—
A press of lips against the braided crown of her hair. The dry rasp of her mam’s cough when she pressed a handkerchief to her mouth, blood staining the folds.
—farewells.
Trying to push her thoughts aside, Ryn followed her little sister into the yard. The goat was tugging restlessly at the rope lead, staring hungrily at a patch of vetch near the iron fence.
“The goat should go in the pen,” she said. “Letting her wander about is bound to get us in—”
Her voice faded.
A man stood in the yard. He could not have looked more out of place amid the overgrown grass and the chickens. He wore the crisp, clean clothes of a nobleman. His hair was silver, and he held himself rigidly straight.
“—trouble,” said Ryn. “Ah. Hello there, Master Eynon.”
She had never liked Lord Eynon. He was the sort who would run over a person’s cat with his cart, then coolly deliver the body with a warning that should such an incident happen again, he would take it up with the cantref court.
Ryn should know. She’d been ten and she’d loved that cat.
“I suppose you know why I’m here.” His voice had a silky tone, and it set Ryn’s teeth on edge. She thought of her axe and decided it was likely a good thing she wasn’t still carrying it.
“I do,” Ryn replied, unwavering. “And I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone payment.”
Eynon’s fingers slid down his spotless sleeve. He straightened it, studying the fine material with studious care. “I am not sure what you mean, my dear girl.”
Ryn resisted the urge to tell him that she was not his dear girl. “The Turners decided not to use our services. And if we give you payment now, with no certainty that we’ll bury anyone else before winter, we might not be able to feed ourselves.” She was half aware of the door opening behind her, of Gareth walking into the yard. Ceri moved closer, the goat’s lead still in hand. Ryn wondered if it was a show of strength, or if her siblings felt better with their elder sister between them and the irritable noble.
“I see.” Eynon gave her a cool look, and he sighed. “That is a pity. You see, your uncle was already late in returning payment to me. I fear that if I’m not paid in full soon… I will have to take the coin from elsewhere.” He stepped back, his gaze sweeping over the house. “Perhaps by selling this place.”
Ryn’s fingers clenched. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” he said. “And if I’m not paid within the fortnight, I will.”
Anger rose within her; it was the kind of anger that came from helplessness, that made wild animals snarl and bite. She wanted to threaten Eynon the way he had threatened her, and the words slipped out before she could stop them. “Surely you skim enough coin from the coffers that you should be giving to the prince. Our uncle’s debts won’t inconvenience you.”