She turned back to, or upon, her menfolk. “Here, what are you all doing standing about gabbing and gawking like a pack of ninnies? There’s work to do before dark. Horse, see to milking those poor cows, if they ain’t been frightened dry. Sassa, fetch in the firewood, if those thieves left any in the stack, and if they didn’t, make some more. Jay, put away and put right what can be, what needs fixin’, start on, what needs tomorrow’s tools, set aside. Tad, help your grandpa with the horses, and then come and start picking up inside. Hop to it while there’s light left!”

They scattered at her bidding.

Fawn said helpfully, pushing up, “The mud-men didn’t find your storage cellar—” And then her head seemed to drain, throbbing unpleasantly. The world did not go black, but patterned shadows swarmed around her, and she was only dimly aware of abrupt movement: a strong hand and truncated arm catching her and half-walking, half-carrying her inside. She blinked her eyes clear to find herself on the feather pallet once more, two faces looming over her, the farmwife’s concerned and wary, Dag’s concerned and…tender? The thought jolted her, and she blinked some more, trying to swim back to reason.

“—flat, Spark,” he was saying. “Flat was working.” He brushed a sweat-dampened curl out of her eyes.

“What happened to you, girl?” demanded Petti.

“’M not a girl,” Fawn mumbled. “’M twenty…”

“The mud-men knocked her around hard yesterday.” Dag’s intent gaze on her seemed to be asking permission to continue, and she shrugged assent. “She miscarried of a two-months child. Bled pretty fierce, but it seems to have slowed now. Wish one of my patrolwomen were here. You do much midwifery, ma’am?”

“A little. Keeping her lying down is right if she’s been bleeding much.”

“How do you know if she…if a woman is going to be all right, after that?”

“If the bleeding tails off to nothing within five days, it’s a pretty sure bet things are coming back around all right inside, if there’s no fever. Ten days at the most. A two-months child, well, that’s as chance will happen. Much more than three months, now, that gets more dangerous.”

“Five days,” he repeated, as if memorizing the number. “Right, we’re still all right, then. Fever…?” He shook his head and rose to his feet, wincing as he rubbed his left arm, and followed the farmwife’s gaze around her kitchen. With an apologetic nod, he removed his arm contraption from her table, bundled it up, and set it down at the end of the tick.

“And what knocked you around?” asked Petti.

“This and that, over the years,” he answered vaguely. “If my patrol doesn’t find us by tomorrow, I’d like to take Miss Bluefield to Glassforge. I have to report in. Will there be a wagon?”