But not more than one, not if he could make it so.

Dag clapped his heels to his horse’s sides and cantered after his patrol. The farmwife watched thoughtfully as Fawn packed up her bedroll, straightened the straps, and hitched it over her shoulder once more. “It’s near a day’s ride to Glassforge from here,” she remarked. “Longer, walking. You’re like to be benighted on the road.”

“It’s all right,” said Fawn. “I’ve not had trouble finding a place to sleep.”

Which was true enough. It was easy to find a cranny to curl up in out of sight of the road, and bedtime was a simple routine when all you did was spread a blanket and lie down, unwashed and unbrushed, in your clothes. The only pests that had found her in the dark were the mosquitoes and ticks.

“You could sleep in the barn. Start off early tomorrow.” Shading her eyes, the woman stared down the road where the patrollers had vanished a while ago.

“I’d not charge you for it, child.”

Her honest concern for Fawn’s safety stood clear in her face. Fawn was torn between unjust anger and a desire to burst into tears, equally uncomfortable lumps in her stomach and throat. I’m not twelve, woman. She thought of saying so, and more. She had to start practicing it sooner or later: I’m twenty. I’m a widow. The phrases did not rise readily to her lips as yet.

Still… the farmwife’s offer beguiled her mind. Stay a day, do a chore or two or six and show how useful she could be, stay another day, and another… farms always needed more hands, and Fawn knew how to keep hers busy. Her first planned act when she reached Glassforge was to look for work. Plenty of work right here—familiar tasks, not scary and strange.