Roan paused in her chicken plucking. “Of course I do. I always keep—”
Moya sighed. “Roan, I’m not serious.”
“Oh…sorry.”
“Don’t need to apologize, Roan.”
“Sorry.”
Moya sighed again. “Never mind.”
Persephone loved Moya for her forthright, honest, speak-her-mind openness. She didn’t know anyone who was braver or more helpful. But secretly Persephone wondered if Konniger, Tressa, and Padera were right about Moya taking a husband. Not that she should be forced to marry The Stump, but Moya, looking the way she did and refusing every proposal, had started fights among suitors. The gods had blessed her with beauty beyond mortal bounds, just as they had given mankind fire. Both gifts had the ability to leave destruction in their wake, but no one was foolish enough to swing a torch at every tree. Moya, on the other hand, was an uncontrollable flirt and oblivious to the devastation she caused.
Brin resumed her vigil at the door, her eyes intent on something. “Raithe and Malcolm are at the well.”
“The Fhrey doing anything?” Moya sat up.
“A couple looked over, but they’re still just sitting there.”
“Keep an eye out,” Moya told her, then turned back to Persephone. Drumming her fingernails on the cup, she asked, “So what were you doing out in the forest? You never did say.”
Persephone looked embarrassed.
“You weren’t really secretly meeting Raithe, were you?” Moya sat up, her brows rising. “You weren’t, you know…what The Stump said?”
“No!”
Moya frowned and settled back in disappointment. “What, then?”
Persephone sighed. “I went to talk to a tree.”
Moya, Roan, Brin, and Padera looked at one another.
“Come again?” Moya said.
Persephone nodded toward the mystic, who sat cross-legged on the floor between a stack of flat stones and a battered basket stuffed with dusty pinecones. With Minna’s head on her lap, Suri appeared oblivious to everything around her, playing intently with her string again, a spider-like pattern forming between her fingers.
“Suri came to me a while ago saying she saw signs of a terrible catastrophe, something worse than any famine. I didn’t think much of it at the time.”
“But then the Fhrey burned Dureya and Nadak,” Moya said.
Persephone nodded. “Suri told me the old tree could help. Would answer questions and is the oldest tree in the forest. And she is, too, huge and ancient.”
“How’s Magda doing, anyway?” Padera asked. The old woman was fanning the fire beneath the water sack.
“You know about the oak?” Persephone asked.
The old woman nodded. “Melvin and I, we first…um. We were married under her leaves. Beautiful spring day. Songbirds filled her branches and sang to us. A good sign.”
“Probably a sapling back then, eh, Padera?” Moya grinned.
“Hard to tell,” the old woman replied. “Sun hadn’t been born yet.”
They all laughed, except for Roan, who paused in her plucking to study the old woman with new interest.
Raithe and Malcolm returned, carrying an array of gourd jugs hanging from a pole.
“Into the large skin over there.” Padera pointed.
“So you actually spoke to this tree?” Moya asked.
“I asked questions,” Persephone clarified. “Suri told me what the oak said.”
Roan, who was making a little pile of wet feathers at her feet, stopped plucking. She stared at Suri. “You understand the language of trees?”
Suri nodded without looking up from the web between her fingers, tongue sticking out as she worked the string thoughtfully.
“And what did it say?” Moya asked.
“A bunch of gibberish, really,” Persephone replied.
“Not gibberish.” Suri spoke for the first time. “You asked Magda for answers; she gave them. Problem solved.”
“But none of it made any sense,” Persephone said.
Suri shrugged. “Not Magda’s fault you can’t understand. She kept it simple for you. And she was right, but she always is.”
“She was right?” Persephone asked, confused.
Suri nodded.
“What exactly did she say?” Padera asked.
Persephone shrugged. “Something about…” She looked at the mystic. “Suri, do you remember?”
“Welcome the gods. Heal the injured. Follow the wolf,” Suri recited without looking up. “Can’t get much simpler than that.”
Persephone spilled some of her tea. “That’s right! For the love of Mari! Welcome the gods!”
Everyone looked toward the roundhouse’s open doorway, where the evening sun cast a patch of light across Roan’s floor mat. For Persephone, the light looked a little more golden, a little more magical than it had a moment before.
“I just got a chill,” Moya said.
Padera looked at her. “More clothes might help. Oh, wait, I forgot who I was talking to. How about we try this instead. Less jawing and more work will warm you up. Get off that swing and cut up a bowl full of potatoes and set them in the sack to boil.” Then the old woman turned to Suri. “You staying for the meal?”
“I invited her,” Persephone said.
“That’s fine, but it’s gonna take a while,” Padera explained. “Any chance you could help Persephone discover why Sackett, Adler, and Hegner tried to kill her yesterday?”
Persephone looked at Suri. “Can you do that?”
“I’d need bones,” the mystic said.
“Got a dead chicken right here.” Padera pointed at the bird Roan held. “Or do you need to kill it in some ritual?”
“Bird die today?”
“Wrung its neck an hour ago.”
“Should be fine.” The mystic pulled a loop around with two fingers and grinned to herself.
Raithe finished dumping the water, set the gourds down near the door, then turned and surveyed the interior, looking for a place to sit. “You’re certain it’s all right, us staying here tonight?” Raithe asked. “Might be a bit cramped.”
“We’ll make room,” Persephone said, then put a hand to her forehead. “Oh, I’m sorry, Roan.”
Roan, who was still only halfway done with the chicken, paused. “What for?”
“For being rude. This is your place, not mine. I shouldn’t have spoken on your behalf.”
Roan tilted her head, then looked to Moya.
“Forget it, Seph,” Moya said, shaking her head with a sympathetic frown. “I’m still trying to convince her it’s okay to sleep in the bed. Every night she curls up on the floor mat.”
“The floor mat?” Persephone looked over at a thin sheet of reeds that, being daytime, was rolled up and out of the way. “Why?”
Moya looked to Roan.
Roan rolled her shoulders. “It’s Iver’s bed.”
“Iver’s dead,” Persephone said. “You understand that, right? It’s your bed now.”
Roan offered only an embarrassed grimace.
“See?” Moya sighed in resignation.
Roan let the half-plucked chicken droop so that the bird’s neck brushed the ground. “I’ve always slept on the floor.”