“I woke up one night, middle of the night. I’d been in . . . in the birthing barn.” He cleared his throat but didn’t stop telling the story. His fingers tightened briefly over Hero’s. “I’d been in there all night, working through a difficult labor. It hadn’t looked good—I almost lost the mother three or four times. My hands were white and wrinkled from being underwater so long, trying to shift the hop into the right position to come out. But then, like nothing had ever been wrong at all, that mother just up and pushed out her hop. It was small, but it swam right up and poked its head out of the water and took its first breath, no problem. It was a healthy, perfect little girl-hop. The cow was looking at me like she didn’t know why I thought I needed to interfere.” He let out a breath that was almost like a laugh. “I was so exhausted, I fell asleep right there on the marsh grass beside her.

“When I woke up, the barn was filling with smoke. It smelled . . . wrong. I’ll never forget it, Hero.” He was nearly whispering, and Hero leaned a little closer to hear him. His voice was thick with the memory. “I stumbled outside and tripped over the hop, the one that had just been delivered. The mother was nowhere in sight—but then, I could hardly see anything, the smoke was so thick. There was sweat in my eyes, it was so hot, and the fire . . . the fire was everywhere.

“I picked up the hop and ran. She was small, small enough for me to carry, and too new to wriggle like they do. I got to the edge of my marsh and set her down in the water—her skin was already getting dry—and then turned to run back and put the fire out, but—” He stopped midsentence, and Hero could hear him trying to find the words.

“It was too late,” they murmured.

Houndstooth sniffed hard. He squeezed Hero’s hand once, hard, and then let it go. He leaned back on his bedroll, resting his head against his saddlebag again. After a few minutes, he went on.

“I couldn’t go back through the fire. The marsh grass was just dry enough, and there was a wall of flames between me and the paddocks. I couldn’t see through the fire and the smoke, but I could hear them,” he said. “The air smelled like . . . like meat, Hero. It was all wrong. I could hear them thrashing, bellowing. I could hear the hops. I could hear them burning. A hundred in all, hops and mothers and bulls, and I stood there and listened to them die.” His voice broke, and there were another few minutes in which they both pretended his tears were silent ones.