His hand made a little move toward her, but then fell back to his side. “Good night.”

“G’night, Dag. You sleep hard too.”

He gave her a last nod, and withdrew; the farmwife carried the candle out with her, closing the door firmly behind. A faint flash of the heat lightning Dag had mentioned came through the window, too far away even to hear the thunder, but otherwise all was darkness and silence. Fawn rolled over and tried to obey Dag’s parting admonishment.

“Hold up,” murmured the farmwife, and since she carried the only light, the stub melting down to a puddle in the clay cup, Dag did so. She shouldered past and led him to the kitchen. Another candle, and a last dying flicker from the fireplace, showed the trestle table and benches taken down and stowed by the wall, and the plates and vessels from dinner stacked on the drainboard by the sink, along with the bucket of water refilled.

The farmwife looked around the shadows and sighed. “I’ll deal with the rest of this in the morning, I guess.” Belying her words, she moved to cover and set aside the scant leftover food, including a stack of pan bread she had apparently cooked up with breakfast in mind.

“Where do you want me to sleep, ma’am?” Dag inquired politely. Not with Fawn, obviously. He tried not to remember the scent of her hair, like summer in his mouth, or the warmth of her breathing young body tucked under his arm.

“You can have one of those ticks that little girl mended; put it down where you will.”

“The porch, maybe. I can watch out for my people, if any come out of the woods in the night, and not wake the house. I could pull it into the kitchen if it comes on to rain.”

“That’d be good,” said the farmwife.

Dag peered through the empty window frame into the darkness, letting his groundsense reach out. The animals, scattered in the pasture, were calm, some grazing, some half-asleep. “That mare isn’t actually mine. We found it at the bogle’s lair and rode it out. Do you recognize it for anyone’s?”

Petti shook her head. “Not ours, anyways.”

“If I ride it to Glassforge, it would be nice to not be jumped for horse thieving before I can explain.”

“I thought you patrollers claimed a fee for killing a bogle. You could claim it.”

Dag shrugged. “I already have a horse. Leastways, I hope so. If no one comes forward for this one, I thought I might have it go to Miss Bluefield. It’s sweet-tempered, with easy paces. Which is part of what inclines me to think it wasn’t a bandit’s horse, or not for long.”

Petti paused, staring down at her store of food. “Nice girl, that Miss Bluefield.”

“Yes.”

“You wonder how she got in this fix.”

“Not my tale, ma’am.”