She bent her head over the Mors with a grunt. She focused on it with all she had, never mind the curiosity about the resistance burning in her gut.

Dinnae talk to strays, she reminded herself. They dinnae stick around long and often end up bloated bodies in the bogs.

Sure enough, he left not long after. She ate more of the nutrition bar, shutting her eyes at the sweet taste. She saved half for Mam, even though her stomach still rumbled.

Clo eyed the stray in the bed. It had been months since the last one. She had started to hope Mam would stop letting them in, stop giving them food they couldn’t spare or shale that could buy medicine. Go to Petra’s, folk whispered to strangers—rebels—seeking shelter or help in the Snarl. She’ll fix ye up right proper.

Sometimes they paid her back. Often they didn’t. Mam always said this was the last one. She always promised.

Mam’s face was harsh under the swinging bulb of the lamp. Clo saw her home anew when a stray washed in, knowing how they must judge. Stained walls lined with scant possessions—boxes of spare parts, the med kit, their patchwork clothes Mam had stitched as neatly as she sewed up flesh. Teeny kitchen and bathroom. Cracked, concrete ground with threadbare rugs, the shared bed in the corner.

A bed currently full of a muscled man, his stomach bandaged, blood already soaking through the white. Clo glared at him, then at Mam.

Mam opened her mouth, but only coughs came out. She covered her mouth with a rag, and Clo wanted to snatch it from her, check if it were flecked with blood and pus. Her mam always hid it from her.

When she recovered, Mam’s voice was raspy. “Come on, Clo. Don’t give me that look.”

Mam always spoke Imperial instead of Snarl, even though it wasn’t natural for her. So formal and clipped, like speaking with your nose pinched shut. Clo’s tongue tripped when she tried.

“No’ givin’ ye any such look,” Clo countered. “What’s with the dipwell?”

Petra gave a resigned sigh. “No cursing. And he’s the last one, I promise.”

Her mother looked pale. Too thin, with bags under her eyes, wispy hair tied up in an old rag.

Clo looked away. “Dinnae believe ye.”

“Imperial, Clo.”

“Nah.”

Her mother cleared her throat, swallowing another cough. “He’s hurt; he knew this was a safe place. You know they do the gods’ work.”

“Quag a mire, mair like.”

“They don’t bring trouble; you just need to keep your head down the next few days. Now go change his dressing so I can get some food.”