Now she came dripping from the river where she had stopped to wash the mud from her dress – his fault, because the falcon’s dive to the lure this morning had caused the dog to run between her ankles and her to slip in the mud. Wading into the water, she had pulled the filthy gown off and left only her linen undertunic to cover her as she scrubbed. For shame, he had turned away from the sight of her bathing. She might only be a servant, but he was mannered enough for the king’s court, not an uncouth lout.

When she came out of the water, holding the wet gown modestly before her linen-clad form, he looked and saw another knife between her breasts. He turned away again to allow her to put on a fresh gown and wondered where else there might be blades hidden beneath her clothes, tucked against skin that was as golden and glowing as her hair.

She was silent – she never made a sound except for that odd hissing noise she employed to call or quiet the dog – but he knew she was dressed again when she led the mule ahead on the path. Unlike the gown she had dirtied, the one she wore now was made of rough material, the kind of garment only the meanest peasant would wear. She had tucked the skirt of it up into her belt, to let the linen beneath dry as they walked. He had seen servant women tuck their skirts up like that, to scrub floors.

The splatters of mud had been washed from her hair, too, and now it hung loose to dry. It spread across her shoulders, a veil of sunlight on this gray day.

“Come ahead little Bran,” he called, though there was no need. The dog was well trained to keep up with its mistress. It was only that Gryff grew weary of the silence, and had taken to speaking to the animals only to hear words again.

He had become aware at some point that though Nan might be mute, she was not deaf. Once he had realized that she could hear, he spoke his nonsense only in Welsh – and no matter how hard he tried it was memories of his childhood that came out. He found himself talking idly of walks with his brothers in the hills, claiming the hawks and eagles that wheeled against the sky as their own, arguing over it, searching for the lake where a fairy was supposed to live. Pointless reminiscing. A world that was gone. It meant nothing to anyone, these memories of a lost life. Fitting, then, to talk to a dog, a mule, a falcon about it.