“Yeah, old man,” said Rush, scowling. Of all at the table but Nattie, the twins had said the least so far, but none of it had been favorable. “Give us three good reasons!”

Dag’s eyelids lowered briefly in a cool yet strangely dangerous assent; but his side glance at Fawn felt like a caress after a beating. “Only that? Very well.” He held their attention while he appeared to think, deliberately clearing a silence in which to speak. “For the courage of her heart, which I saw face down the greatest horrors I know without breaking. For the high and hungry intelligence of her mind, which never stops asking questions, nor thinking about the answers. For the spark of her spirit, which could teach bonfires how to burn. That’s three. Enough for going on with.”

He rose from the table, his hook hand briefly touching her shoulder. “All this is set beside me, and you ask me instead if I want dirt? I do not understand farmers.” He excused himself with a polite nod all around, and a murmured, “Evening, Aunt Nattie,” and strode out.

Fawn wasn’t sure if she was more thrilled with his words or with his timing. He had indeed figured out the only way to get in the last word in a bunch of Bluefields—shoot it into the target and run.

And whatever comment, mockery, or insult might have risen in his wake was undercut to shamed silence by the sound of Mama, weeping quietly into the apron clutched up to her face.

The debate didn’t end there, naturally. It mostly broke up into smaller parts, as they took on family members in ones or twos, although Fawn gave Dag credit for trying for efficiency, that first night. The twins cornered her the next afternoon in the old barn, where she had gone to give Grace and Copperhead some treats and a good brushing.

Rush leaned on the stall partition and spoke in a voice of disgust. “Fawn, that fellow is way too old for you. He’s older than Papa, and Papa’s older than rocks. And he’s all so banged up. If you were married, you’d have to look at that stump he hides, I bet. Or touch it, ew.”

“I’ve seen it,” she said shortly, brushing bay hairs into the air in a cloud. “I help him with his arm harness, now his other arm’s broke.” And a great deal of other assistance that she was not inclined to bring to the twins’ attention. “You should see his poor gnarly feet if you want to see banged up.”

Reed sat on a barrel of oats across the aisle with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them, rocking uneasily. He said in a thin tone, “He’s a Lakewalker. He’s evil.”