“We couldn’t keep the smells out of our house—one of the reasons the rent was so cheap, I expect. Dad said cinnamon was a plague on the neighborhood. The smell still reminds me of them.”

“Your parents.”

Anji picked at the filth under her nails. “Dad was a fisherman, same as his own father. Not much money in it, but he loved the sea more than dry land—more than my mother, if you asked her. Taught me how to sail, and I took to it well, but I didn’t have the makings of an angler like him. Never got used to gutting fish. I still hate the taste.”

The Hawk murmured something, but Anji couldn’t make it out. She went on.

“He loved to write at night—stories he’d make up for me and then read to put me to sleep. He gave me this”—she picked at her coat—“and that knife in your bag.” She didn’t mention the coin.

“My mother was … she worked for a newspaper.” And then, since she’d already come this far and the damage was six years done: “An artist and writer. They both certainly preferred I read rather than practice with swords,” Anji said. “My aunt was a harsh teacher, always knocking my legs apart, forcing me to hold a stave for hours. My arms were always too scrawny, my head up in the clouds when she lectured on proper poses and movements.”

Anji pulled in a breath.

“Then Rolandrian outlawed schooling for all of Mudtown. Belle was let go, given textile detail. She packed her things that night. Said she was headed for Conifor to find someone. A woman I never met, but she must have loved her…” She picked at a hanging bit of skin at her nail. “I hope she found her.”

Wind tore at the cave mouth, gusting and dying at Anji’s feet. She perched her chin on one knee, watching the stars flicker above the glowing peaks.

“She was all I had left,” said Anji, cradling her head in her folded arms, “I don’t even know if she’s really there—in Conifor, I mean. It was the only place in the world I thought I might have…” She swallowed, lifted one shoulder. “Someone.”

Silence settled between them. Eventually Anji summoned the courage to look across the darkened space, to suffer whatever insults the Hawk had ready for her. But the Hawk’s eyes were closed, her breathing deeper. Anji sighed. She wondered when the woman had stopped listening and finally drifted off. Probably for the best. If Anji hadn’t stopped herself she might have told the woman all about her parents and the dreams they’d died for. She breathed a silent curse, knowing she’d overshared already. It had just been so nice to talk to someone, even an old woman who so obviously hated the air Anji breathed.