Sulis finished, set her bowl aside, and rose from the creaking chair. Quick for her age, she snatched up a leather satchel and stepped into the trees.

  Evening came without being noticed. Time slipped by in simple chores. Warm light yielded to a cooler glow seeping through the hut’s seams. Sulis still hadn’t returned. Two hours ago, maybe, she’d said she was off to gather something that doesn’t like too much light. The hut was quiet—too quiet. Only a wooden clock ticked faithfully, like a servant on endless duty.

  Dara sat at the table. In front of her, a bowl of porridge the granny had left “just in case.” She wasn’t hungry. She stirred without conviction, watching the oats spin slowly down. Through the cracked door the scent of evening meadow drifted in—wet, heavy with ripening grasses.

  She stood and slowly crossed the room, the boards creaking under her feet. She stopped by a shelf. A small object lay there—a comb of dark bone, one tooth broken. It was simple, almost primitive, but something in its shape reminded her of her mother.

  A memory washed through her: hands combing her hair in the morning, a warm voice humming something about dew and sun. She saw her father at the table, his hands like tree roots. He tapped a finger on the wooden board when he was lost in thought. She saw Algar mowing grain with that sickle of his, tireless as ever. He always did that, and she liked to watch him. He probably never knew.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Her head swam. The images vanished as suddenly as they’d come. In their place settled emptiness. They were all dead; she would never see them again.

  She sank to the floor. She wrapped her arms around her knees and curled against the wall, feeling the first tear slide down her cheek. Then a second. Then they came without end.

  She didn’t scream. She didn’t moan. She only sat, shaking a little, crying quietly. Like someone who’s lost in the world, alone, in a strange place. She felt everything at once—shame, anger, fear, longing. And, above all, that one sharp feeling everyone who’s lost someone knows: that maybe you did something wrong.

  If I hadn’t fought with them, if I hadn’t wished them ill, if if only I had…

  The door creaked. Not violently—slowly, softly, with respect.

  Sulis came in without a word. She set her bag on the bench and took off her apron. For a moment she only looked. Dara didn’t glance her way, didn’t wipe her tears, didn’t pretend. For the first time she let herself be exactly as she was.

  The old woman walked over and sat beside her. No questions. No consoling. She sat in silence, hands folded in her lap.

  After a long while she laid a hand on the girl’s back. The warmth of that hand had nothing to do with magic. It was real—earthly.

  “I killed them. We fought and I wished punishment on them,” she whispered.

  “Do you truly think the abyss obeys so easily? You offered it nothing.”

  Sunlight pushed through the window before she even opened her eyes. The smell of freshly cut herbs and baking bread pricked pleasantly at her nose. Dara sat up on her pallet, hair wild, yesterday’s dream still in her eyes.