He poked up the faint remains of the fire, fed it with some wood chips, and lit two wax stubs, one of which he left on the hearth for her; the other he took with him for a quick exploration. A couple of those chests and wardrobes upstairs had still had things in them, he dimly recalled. A patroller should be resourceful. What did the girl most need? A miscarriage was a natural enough process, even if this one was most unnaturally triggered; women survived them all the time, he was fairly sure. He just wished they had discussed them more, or that he had listened more closely. Lie flat, check, they’d got that far. Make her comfortable? Cruel joke…peace. He supposed she’d be more comfortable cleaned up than filthy; at any rate, he’d always been grateful for that when recovering from a serious injury. What, you can’t fix the real problem, so you’ll fix something else instead? And which of you is this supposed to aid?

Peace. And a bucket and an unfouled well, with luck.

It took more time than he’d have liked, during which to his swallowed aggravation she insisted on lying on the blighted kitchen floor, but he eventually assembled a clean gownlike garment, rather too large for her, some old mended sheets, an assortment of rags for pads, actual soap, and water. In a moment of ruthless inspiration, he broke through her reticence by persuading her to wash his hand first, as though he needed help.

She still had the shakes, which she seemed to take for residual fear but which he recognized as one with the chilled skin and grayness in her ground, and which he treated by piling on whatever blanketlike cloths he could find, and building up the fire. The last time he’d seen a woman coiled around her belly that hard, a blade had penetrated almost to her spine. He heated a stone, wrapped it in cloth, and gave it to Fawn to clutch to herself, which to his relief seemed finally to help; the shakes faded and her ground lightened. Eventually, she was arranged all tidy and sweet and patient-like, her curl around the stone relaxing as she warmed, blinking up at him in the candlelight as he sat cross-legged beside the tick.

“Did you find any clothes you could use?” she asked. “Though I suppose you’d be lucky to find a fit.”

“Haven’t looked, yet. Got spares in my saddlebags. Which are on my horse. Somewhere. If I’m lucky, my patrol will find him and bring him along sometime. They had better be looking for me by now.”

“If you could find something else to wear, I bet I could wash those tomorrow. I’m sorry that—”

“Little Spark,” he leaned forward, his ragged voice cracking, “do not apologize to me for this.”

She recoiled.