"I'm not saying as I think it, mind. The Marshal-General, I expect she'd know the truth of it, and she said as how you was not to blame for any. But they all think you're cursed, somehow. Never saw the like of those marks on your face turning dark like that; it's not natural. We've plenty of young ones in the village that need work can look after the sheep well enough. Here's your pay—" It was not much; Paks did not count it. "And I'll wish you well."

It was a bitter morning, gray with a sharp wind. Paks shivered; she was, as always, hungry. "Is there an inn, here, where—"

"No, not here." His voice was sharp. "We're not some rich town. On that way—" he pointed to a side lane. "You could make Shaleford by tonight, if you get a foot on it, or back the way we came." Paks looked from one to the other, irresolute. "You won't make it shorter by thinking on it," he said, and turned back into his own house, shutting the door.

Paks put the coins he'd given her into her belt pouch, biting her lip. The way they had come was north, into the wind, and the nearest town more than a day's travel. She took the lane to Shaleford.

The lane dwindled to a track, and the track to a hardly visible trail that led up over a rise open to the wind. All that day Paks fought the wind, leaning on its shaking shoulder. She had nothing to eat, and nothing in the bare countryside offered shelter or sustenance. When she topped the rise, she looked into a country already softened by coming night; behind her the sun fell behind heavier cloud to a dull ending. She saw nothing that looked like a town, and wondered if the shepherd had lied. But the miserable trail wound on, and she saw sheep droppings nearby. Sheep meant people, she hoped, and kept on. At least it was downhill.

She was stumbling in the gathering darkness when she saw the first light ahead. Thinking of warmth, food, being out of the everlasting wind, she missed her footing again, and fell flat, jarring every bone. She lay sprawled, listening to the wind's howl, and wondering how far the light was.

Shaleford had an inn, if a three-room hut with a lean-to kitchen could be called an inn. Paks handed over most of her earnings for a pile of straw at one end of the common loft and a bowl of soup. The other customers drank ale, heavily, and eyed her sideways. She paid another of her coppers for a second helping of soup and some bread. She was tempted to spend one of the Marshal-General's coins for a decent meal, but was afraid to show the others that she had anything worth stealing.