She lay dozily as he wandered in and out. Things happened. A ragged white shirt appeared on his back, too tight across the shoulders and with the sleeves rolled up. More tea happened, and food: the remains of the pan bread she made yesterday rolled around some meat stew from the cellar. He had to coax her to eat, but miraculously, it stayed down, and she could feel strength starting to return to her body almost immediately because of it. Her hot stones were swapped out regularly. After a second longish expedition outside, he returned with a cloth full of strawberries from the farmwoman’s kitchen garden and sat himself down on the floor beside her, sharing them out in mock exactitude.

She woke from a longer doze to see him sitting at the kitchen table, mulling glumly over his hand contraption laid out atop it.

“Can you fix it?” she asked muzzily.

“Afraid not. Not a one-hand job even if I had the tools here. Stitching’s all ripped, and the wrist cap is cracked. This is beyond Dirla. When we get to Glassforge, I’ll have to find a harnessmaker and maybe a wood-turner to put it right again.”

Glassforge. Was she still going to Glassforge, when the reason for her flight had been so abruptly removed? Her life had been turned upside down one too many times lately, too fast, for her to be sure of much just now. She turned to the wall and clutched her stone—by the heat, he’d renewed it again while she’d slept—tighter to her aching, emptying womb.

In the past weeks, she had experienced her child as fear, desperation, shame, exhaustion, and vomiting. She had not yet felt the fabled quickening, although she had gone to sleep nightly waiting intently for that sign. It was disquieting to think that this chance-met man, with his strange Lakewalker senses, had gained a more direct perception of the brief life of her child than she had. The thought hurt, but pressing the rag-wrapped stone to her forehead didn’t help.

She rolled back over and her eye fell on Dag’s knife pouch, set aside last night near the head of her feather mattress. The intact knife with the blue hilt was still in its sheath where she’d shoved it. The other—green hilt and bone fragments—seemed to have been rewrapped in a bit of scavenged cloth, ends tied in one of Dag’s clumsy one-handed knots. The fine linen, though wrinkled and ripped and probably from the mending basket, had embroidery on it, once-treasured guest-day work.

She looked up to see him watching her examine them, his face gone expressionless again.

“You said you’d tell me about these, too,” she said. “I don’t guess it was just any bit of bone that killed an immortal malice.”

“No. Indeed. The sharing knives are by far the most complex of our…tools. Hard and costly to make.”