Ayla balled up her shirt and tossed it back onto the shore, then dived beneath the surface. While Ayla was underwater, Crier scrambled out of her pants and waded in up to her waist, cold punching the breath from her lungs. But it felt good, refreshing, after the days spent caked in dirt and her own dried, flaking blood. She longed for soap—not even the floral bath oils she’d grown up with—but did her best to scrub the grime off her skin and out of her clothes without it. She half walked, half swam to the center of the river, water up to her collarbone, and took off her shirt, scraping at the bloodstains with her fingernails. She was terribly aware of Ayla, only a few feet away, splashing around.

“I should make you wash my hair,” Ayla said after a while. Crier glanced up to see Ayla watching her, water lapping at her chin, and was reminded of the night they’d slipped into the deep, sunken tide pools off the shores of the Steorran. The water had been freezing then, too. “And dress me.”

“I would,” said Crier.

Ayla’s eyes widened. She ducked beneath the water again, surfacing only a moment later. “I was joking,” she said, and shivered.

“Are you getting too cold?” Crier asked. Her own body had acclimated to the chill, but human bodies weren’t like that. Humans fell ill so easily. “We should get out.”

“I was going to wash my clothes. So they have time to dry before the sun goes down.”

“Then I’ll get out,” said Crier. “Wash your clothes. I won’t look.”

“You’re modest,” Ayla said, as if realizing something.

“I’m not. You are.” Crier frowned. “Are you not?”

Something flickered across Ayla’s face, too quick for Crier to tell what it was. Ayla’s wet hair was pushed back off her forehead, revealing her strong, dark eyebrows, and it made her look older. “Turn around,” she said.

Crier nodded and obeyed, heading back to the shore. “Tell me when you’re done,” she said, sunlight sliding over her shoulders, her arms, her whole self, as she made her way out of the water, wet clothes clutched in one hand. She laid them to dry on the riverbank and straightened up, stretching her limbs, wringing the water out of her hair. Letting the sun dry her skin as it was drying her clothes. She found a flat, sunbaked rock and sat down, tipping her head back, eyes closed. All around her, the forest made its forest noises. Frogs, birds, the buzz of bees or cicadas. The tok-tok-tok of woodpeckers. Wind in the leaves. The forest breathed just as the sea did.

Lost in sensation, Crier didn’t know how much time passed before Ayla said, “You can look now.” She came back to herself in increments, limbs and body and finally mind, and turned around. Ayla was clothed in green again, squeezing the water from her curls. The sun had reached the ceiling of the sky and hung there, a white lantern. Crier had lost at least an hour. Maybe two.