Chapter 8: Eight | The Fire

She slept. The fire was low and the rain was steady and she was curled on her side with the coat pulled over her shoulders and her boots pointed at the embers, and her breathing had the deep, even cadence of someone who had done something impossible and was sleeping it off. The shaking had stopped an hour ago. The pride had not. Even in sleep it sat on her face, a faint upward pull at the corner of her mouth, the expression of a person who had filed the day under victory and was not accepting revisions. Lellander sat on his side of the fire and took stock. His shoulder worked, after a fashion. His knees worked, after a longer fashion. The binding at the far marker was holding, the way a dam made of sticks holds: provisionally, without enthusiasm, aware of its own limitations. He would need to re-lay it within the week. The marker before that wanted new cord. The marker before that one was sound. The satchel contained wax, cord, a wooden pick, three copper coins, and a sealed thing he did not open. It did not contain salt, or food, or any practical plan for what to do about the girl. She had followed him for six days. She had defeated a constable, an inn, and a sealed door. She had read a rope-seller, built better fires than his, brewed tea from weeds that did not kill him, and arrived at a place where the ground itself had opinions with the expressed intention of not leaving. She had grabbed his arm and something had happened. He was not going to think about what had happened. He was going to sit by the fire and inventory his supplies and plan the route to the next marker…