Katsa slipped back into the icy water and dived for the tunnel.

SHE CAME ASHORE with a pair of wriggling fish in her hands. “I found your cave,” she said. “It’ll be easy enough for you to manage, if by some wonder of medicine and healing you’re able to swim. The tunnel is just below the fall of water. And here’s your dinner.” She threw the fish onto the rocks and dried herself with a cloth Bitterblue brought to her. She dressed. She held out her hand for Po’s knife, and he tossed it to her. She beheaded the fish and cut them open. She threw the entrails back into the pond.

“You must go now,” Po said. “There’s no point in delay.”

“There’s some point in delay,” Katsa said. “What’ll you eat after these fish are gone?”

“I’ll manage.”

Katsa snorted. “You’ll manage? You don’t even have a bow, and even if you did I’d like to see your aim right now. We’ll not leave until you’ve plenty of food and firewood.”

“Katsa, honestly. You must go, you simply must—”

“The horse needs the rest of a morning,” Katsa said. “From now on it will ride hard. And—and—” She refused, simply refused, to give in to the panic that rattled around inside her. And winter’s coming, and you can make me leave you here, but you can’t make me leave you here to starve to death.

Po rubbed his eyes. He sighed.

“You’ll need a lot of firewood. I’ll get started,” Bitterblue said, and Po laughed outright.

“I’m outnumbered,” he said. “Very well, Katsa. Do what you must. But before morning passes, you’ll be on your way.”

THE MORNING was a whirlwind. The faster Katsa moved, the less she could think, and so she moved as fast as her feet and her fingers were capable of. She caught him two rabbits, which he could cook with the fish that night and store safely for a number of days. She cursed the weather. It was cold enough for Po to be uncomfortable during the day, when he couldn’t risk a fire. But it wasn’t cold enough for freezing meat; nor did they have salt to treat it. She couldn’t kill him meat now to last the winter, or even to last him a number of weeks. And in a number of weeks the hunting would become difficult for even those hunters who walked steadily on their feet and carried a bow.

“Have you ever made a bow?” she asked him.

“Never.”

“I’ll find you the wood,” she said, “before we leave. And you’ll have the hides of these rabbits to reinforce the stave, and for the string. I’ll explain to you how it’s done.”

She cursed herself for the feathers she’d discarded from all of the birds she’d killed. But when her rushed passage over the rocks disturbed a roost of quail, she swept stones up from the ground and managed to knock the majority of them down. They would be Bitterblue’s dinner and her own, and Po would have the feathers for arrows.