He pulled her up and across him, and let the warm drops spatter across his chest like summer rain. “Spill on me,” he whispered.

He released her twinkling tiara and let the tiny creatures fly up into the tree again. In the scintillant glow, they made slow love till midnight brought silence and sleep.

Lumpton Market was a smaller town than Glassforge, but lively nonetheless. It lay at the confluence of two rocky rivers, which flanked a long shale-and-limestone ridge running northward. Two old straight roads crossed there, and it had surely been the site of a hinterland city when the lords ruled. As it was, much of the new town was made of ancient building blocks mined out of the encroaching woods, and dry-stone walls of both ordinary fieldstone and much less identifiable rubble abounded around both outlying fields and house yards. Now that Dag’s eye was alerted to it, however, he noticed a few newer, finer houses on the outskirts built of brick. The bridges were timber, recent, and wide and sturdy enough for big wagons.

The hostelry familiar and friendly to patrollers for which Dag was aiming lay on the north side of Lumpton, so he and Fawn found themselves in early afternoon riding through the town square, where the day market was in full swing. Fawn turned in her saddle, looking over the booths and carts and tarps as they passed around the edge of the busy scene.

“I have that glass bowl for Mama,” she said. “I wish I had something to bring Aunt Nattie. She hardly ever gets taken along when my parents come down here.” A yearly ritual, Dag had been given to understand.

Aunt Nattie was Fawn’s mother’s much older sister, blind since a childhood infection had stolen her sight at age ten. She had come along with Fawn’s mother when she’d married years ago, in some sort of dowry deal. Semi-invalid but not idle, she did all the spinning and weaving for the farm, with extra to sell for cash money sometimes. And was the only member of her family Fawn spoke of without hidden strain in her voice and ground.

Obligingly, now that he understood her purpose, Dag followed Fawn’s gaze. One would not, presumably, carry food to a farm. The cloth and clothing for sale, new and used, likewise would seem foolish. His eye ran over the more permanent shops lining the square. “Tools? Scissors, needles? Something for her weaving or sewing?”

“She has a lot of those.” Fawn sighed.

“Something that gets used up, then. Dyes?” His voice faded in doubt. “Ah. Likely not.”

“Mama did most of the coloring, though I do it nowadays. Wish I could get her something just for her.” Her gaze narrowed. “Furs…?”

“Well, let’s look.” They dismounted, and Fawn looked over the tarp where a farmwoman offered some, in Dag’s expert view, rather inferior pelts; all common local beasts, raccoon and possum and deerhide.