A thirst? No, he had the driving need to drink himself blind. To numb the pain and gift himself with an hour or two of forgetfulness.

“I could swallow a drop, if you can spare it.”

She rested her wooden spoon on the battered cook top. “I’ll spare you a jug, Remmie Lindin. The misery in you is enough to break this mother’s heart.”

He took the stoppered jug she gave him and retreated to the woodland. Found a fallen log and settled himself against it, feeling the bark hard against his spine and the aching muscles of his back. Unstoppered the jug, sloshing it. His empty belly rumbled.

See what you’ve done, Barl? You’ve driven me to drink.

Olken ale was rich and potent, making him gasp at his first mouthful. Gasp again at the second. But by his fifth swallow he was smiling…

The jug was a drop from empty when he heard a twig snap. Peering over the log he frowned, muzzy, at the Olken girl who’d found him.

“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t meant to fright you.”

She was slender. Nearly pretty. She had dark eyes and dark hair. He pulled a face. “You didn’t.”

She came a few steps closer. “I saw you leave the village. You looked sad. I thought… well.” She dimpled, a hint of mischief. A tease of flirting. “I thought I could give you a mite of cheer. My name’s Del.”

“Is it?” he said. “Mine’s Remmie.”

“I know,” she said, folding to the ground beside him. Rested her hand on his thigh, and smiled. “Hello, Remmie.”

He felt his blood pound and his head spin. Reckless, angry, he tossed the jug aside and kissed the Olken girl. Fingers busy, she kissed him back. Giggled into his panting mouth. Heart racing, he stared into her dark eyes. Felt his hand on her small breast, where she’d put it, and started to pull away.

“No—we shouldn’t—”

“Why shouldn’t we?” she demanded. “We ain’t hurtin’ anyone.” She nuzzled him, lips seeking. “Remmie, you look so sad.”

His blood was full of ale and fire. They burned away his grief. Burned caution, burned common sense, burned everything but desire.

All I feel these days is pain. I want to feel something—anything—else.

“Don’t be sad,” the girl whispered. “For a little while, don’t be sad.”

“All right,” he said. “I won’t be.”

And let desire have its way.

“Barl, my love… what mischief are you planning?”

Twisted in restless sleep, Barl heard herself moan. “Go away, Morgan. You’re a dream. You’re just a dream.”

“You’re planning something, my love. I can feel it. There is a fire in your mind.”