"You're getting pretty good, Matti," he said.

"I always had a bow," she said. "Not just here."

"Not a bow like that, I bet," Rudi said, grinning.

"Yeah!" she said enthusiastically. "It's great. We heard about Sam's bows, even, you know, ummm"-she didn't say Portland -"up north."

The longbow was one of Sam Aylward's; the First Armsman made Juniper's son a new one every Yule as he grew, and last year's was about the right weight for Mathilda. It was his bowyer's skill as much as his shooting that made him known as Aylward the Archer.

It's funny, he thought. She learned some things up there – she can shoot pretty good. But not how to look after her own gear. Weird.

They both wiped their bows down with hanks of shearling wool, slipped fhem into protective sheaths of soft, oiled leather, laced those tight-closed and slid them home in the carrying loops beside their quivers. By the time they'd put on the quiver-caps-getting wet didn't do the arrows' fletching any good- the snow was thick enough to make objects in the middle distance blurry, turning the faint light of the moon above the clouds into a ghostly glow. The thick turf of the meadow gave good footing, but the earth beneath was mucky, with a squishy, slippery feel.

Most of the mile-long benchland that held the Mackenzie clachan was invisible now from here at the eastern edge; the mountain-slope northward was just a hint of looming darkness. They could hear the little waterfall that fell down it to the pool at the base that fed Artemis Creek and turned the wheel of the gristmill, but only a hint of the white water was visible.