Fawn was glad for his returning appetite, worn thin as he’d been by this past summer’s gruesome campaign. And he’d been pretty lean to start with. With his height, coppery skin, striking bony face, tousled dark hair, and strange metallic-gold eyes, Dag looked as out of place at a table full of farmers as a heron chick set down in a hen’s nest, even without the faint air of menace and danger from his missing hand and the enigmatic fact of his being a Lakewalker sorcerer. Or Lakewalker necromancer as the bigoted—or frightened—would have it. Not without cause, she admitted to herself.

Fletch, possibly in response to the penetrating looks he was getting from his bride, was the first to ask the question, “I’m surprised to see you two back so soon. You’re not, um…planning to stay, are you?”

Fawn chose to ignore the wary tone. “Just a visit. We’re traveling through. Though I admit, it would be good to rest up for a few days.”

“Oh, of course you can,” cried Clover, brightening with relief.

“That’ll be a treat. I’d love to hear all about your new place.” She added in an arch voice, “So do you two have any good news yet?”

“Beg pardon?” said Dag blankly.

Fawn, who decoded this without effort as Aren’t you pregnant yet? returned the correct response: “No, not yet. How about you and Fletch?”

Clover smirked, touching her belly. “Well, it’s early days yet. But we’re sure tryin’. Our betrothal ran so long, what with one thing and another, there seemed no reason not to start a family right away.”

Fletch gave his bride a fond, possessive smile, as a farmer might regard his prize broodmare, and Clover looked smug. Fawn didn’t always hit it off with Clover, but she had to admit that the girl was the perfect wife for stodgy Fletch, even without her dowry of a forty-acre field and large woodlot, linked to Bluefield land by a quite short footpath. Fletch put in, “We hope for news by winter, anyhow.”