She walked to the side. He said nothing as he limped after her down one side of the hill.

The green plants staked up amongst the earth were grapevines, as she’d thought. Orfeus ran her hands over the leaves in slight wonder. It was a pity there was no way she was going back into that house to raid the cellars.

She picked a grape instead, and ate that. She ate another one, even though they were sour. Orfeus stood there and made the Wolf wait as she ate grapes in the afternoon sun.

She swallowed one last grape, and wiped her hands and turned away. She would say a prayer to the Green here, if that was how the Green worked, and if she deserved to.

Faolan was still waiting, and Orfeus fell into step behind him. Beside him: he slowed his stride to match hers. She wished he wouldn’t.

Silence, as they fought through greenery back to the bikes. Orfeus settled into her saddle automatically, but Faolan didn’t mount, instead rummaging behind the seat of her bike. She pulled out a water bottle and took a swig, then passed it. Orfeus held it slackly in her hand.

Faolan retracted her claws into her gauntlet and poked at her thigh. Her nose wrinkled and she drew out a short cauterknife, and with either considerable courage or undoubtable dexterity cut away the fabric of her pants in a square around the wound. She peeled away the bloodstained bit of fabric and tossed it onto her bike.

Orfeus wrinkled up her face.

Faolan bent his head, looking at the wound. His hand went to the gauntlet on his other arm, and before Orfeus quite understood what he was doing, he had lifted it off. Faol settled the claw gauntlet carefully, almost tenderly on his saddle. Orfeus looked at the holes in her arm where it connected, then looked away.

Faolan held out her hand. Orfeus tensed, then realised, and passed him the water bottle.

Silence, still. The swish of liquid as he rinsed out the wound. Orfeus turned to him. “Why do you do this?” she demanded. “I know why I’m doing this. Why are you?”

Faol’s hand shook, then steadied. He sighed, then looked up from the wound. “Honour—”

Orfeus’s temper boiled over. “It’s not honour.” She waved at Faol in his bloodstained blacks. “This is despicable!”

Faol’s eyes blazed at her. “Yes,” he said. He tipped water over the wound, hissing at the pain, and laid the bottle on his bike. “And that’s honourable.” With quick, jagged movements he wrapped cloth around his leg, pulling it tight, tight. He straightened and glared at her and said, “We do this foul work so no one else must. Are cleaners not respected? Are sewer workers not as honoured as those who keep bees?”