Had kept it all this time, despite everything.

“Take it,” Crier said now, holding it out to Ayla. “It’s yours. It belongs with you.”

This time, Ayla didn’t fight. She took the necklace and looped it around her neck, fingers clumsy on the tiny clasp. For the first time in so long, the locket was a familiar weight on her sternum. Warm gold, red gemstone, eight-point star etched into the surface. Her locket.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“It’s yours,” Crier said again. “So is this one.” And she pulled out a second locket. The one Ayla had seen in Kinok’s study, her locket’s twin. She wanted to examine it, to explore whatever memories and secrets were tucked away inside, but that would have to wait.

“You keep it for now.” If something happened to Ayla, then at least one locket would be safe. “Keep it hidden.”

“I will protect it with my life.” Then Crier’s brow furrowed. “Ayla. Your arm.”

“Hm?” Ayla twisted from side to side, inspecting her arms. And she hadn’t even noticed, but her upper left arm was singed, her green wool sleeve blackened and tattered, revealing scraped-up skin beneath. The wounds were shallow, but even the smallest wounds could become deadly if infected. “Damn,” she said. “Okay, I need to clean this.”

“One moment,” said Crier, and got to her feet.

“What? Where are you going?”

“One moment.” With that, she headed off down the riverbank, picking her way around slick, half-frozen patches of mud.

All right, then. Ayla scooted to the water’s edge and began cleaning the wound as best she could, washing away the soot and dried blood with palmfuls of clear, icy water. It felt good. The coldness cut through the shock at seeing Crier again, the haze of confusion, awkwardness, guilt. Dread, for what was to come.

Crier returned a few minutes later with a handful of soft green moss. She crouched down beside Ayla and offered the moss, wordless. Ayla took it and pressed it to her arm, and the relief was immediate, cool wet moss on her prickling skin.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Yes,” said Crier, and turned her face back to the river and the forest beyond.

With darkness came a chill, heat leaching away as the shadows grew. Ayla tried halfheartedly to catch a fish for dinner. Crier offered to go hunting, to track down a rabbit or something, but neither of them were keen on being separated for more than a few minutes. For all they knew, more bandits—or worse—were still prowling the woods. So Ayla drank from the river and spent the evening pressing her hands into her belly, trying to trick it into feeling full, and Crier sat quietly, listening, always listening.

“Do you mind if I sleep?” Ayla asked, breaking the silence. For almost an hour, the only sounds had been the world-noises: singing frogs, rushing water, the rustling of the forest all around them. Sometimes, the cry of a lone owl. The sky had darkened from blue to black, the moon a ripe yellow fruit, and Ayla felt bruised with exhaustion. And half frozen. They couldn’t risk a campfire, and neither of them had anything warmer than the clothes they were wearing. Ayla was trying not to shiver too violently, but she couldn’t help it. Why hadn’t she thought to grab one of the furs from the carriage before it burned? She had to keep consciously relaxing her jaw so her teeth would stop chattering.