The memory of it had long ago lost its sting. What had happened was a fact no more or less shameful to her than that she had scrubbed floors and served ale. But it was a reminder of who she was and had always been. A reminder that she was from a different world, a worse world, than him. Whatever misfortune had taken him from his home and put him at the mercy of villains was only temporary. That was not his true fate.

The long dagger was still clutched to her breast, pressed against the other blade that hung from her neck beneath the linen. She said her usual prayer of thanksgiving with a little more fervor, put on her hose, then pressed her lips to the dagger before slipping it into her boot. It soothed her, to have it where it belonged.

She watched sunlight play on the water while Fuss dug at the ground, covering himself in dirt as he tried to reach the center of some creature’s burrow. They would come to the end of this forest soon. Chesterfield could not be more than half a day’s journey from here. They must go to the market there, to buy provisions and avoid poaching any more. But after that, Wales was days away. More than a week, even did they not dawdle.

She began a new prayer, that they might somehow hold the world back, or that they would find a way to fit this fragile bliss into the reality that awaited them. She closed her eyes and silently pleaded that she would not have to let him go. Not him too. Not yet.

When she opened her eyes, he had appeared. Down the stream a little, he stood with his back to her. She rose and went to him, Fuss running ahead as always. He had her purse of nails, and the little silver knife that she had left behind in their bed. The sight of it troubled her. She did not like to think of how much she needed it, how her fingers would not let it go in the night even as he held her.

There was an old stump of wood he aimed at, throwing one nail after another at it. Few of them stuck, though he threw with great force. He only paused for the briefest moment when Fuss settled at his feet, then threw again.

“You could kill him,” he said when the nails were spent. He held the little silver knife in his palm. “Why do you not seek revenge?”

An impossible question. As well ask why she did not drain the seas after the destruction of a tempest. She looked at his thumb rubbing across the grip, interrupting the light that gleamed on metal.

“Would it erase the scars from me, or the memories I bear?” She barely noticed it came out in Welsh. “Would it raise Oliver from the dead?”