Her beauty was even more unearthly in the candlelight. It was overwhelming, to be so near to a woman after so many years. Near enough that, beneath the mingled fragrance of wood-smoke and fresh bread on her sleeve, he caught the scent of her. The salt sweat and musk of her skin.

It made his mouth ache, a ravenous hunger that had been dulled by the more urgent demands of survival. With a vicious suddenness, he wanted to devour her, to slide his hands beneath her skirt to find bare flesh and push her thighs open, to put his mouth on her skin and thrust into her. His breath came short, so vividly did he imagine the feel of her tight heat around him.

There was only silence from her as she withdrew her hand and stood. He watched her feet as she walked to the door where her little dog was stationed. The feet paused, stopped, turned back to him, and waited. He raised his eyes to her. The flame of the lamp she held flickered in the draft from the door, but he saw her perfect face, perfectly clearly. Her look told him she had seen the lust in him. As clearly as though she had spoken it directly in his ear, that look told him: No.

He dropped his eyes to the knife that hung at her belt. A simple eating knife, like any common woman would carry. But what she could do with it spoke more loudly than any words or any look. It made the lust in him curdle into nothing.

He turned his face up to contemplate the ceiling, and listened to the even breaths of the wounded knight who slept only a few feet away. Such easy, deep, unbroken sleep.

There was a faint sound at the door, a little rustling. Then the dog was at Gryff’s side. It looked at him, then back at her where she still stood in the doorway. She made a gesture, gently patting the air with her hand and holding her palm up, and the dog came closer to Gryff. It curled up next to him, the warm little body pressing against his ribs as the girl left.

“Bran,” he said, and put a hand to the dog’s head. It gave a very big sigh for something so small, and settled in to sleep.

It was day when next he woke, which seemed miracle enough. He had not slept so many hours together since...before.

Almost as miraculous was the still intact meat pie that was wrapped and set near to his head, while patient little Bran sat inches away and stared longingly at it. It smelled heavenly.

“It is pork,” he informed the dog. “And you are well trained.”