The light drew closer, trapped behind the iron shutters of a lantern, held aloft by something large and shuffling, a terrible silhouette that came steadily on no matter how much Pocket willed it to stop. The figure stopped just outside the tower proper, looming in the passageway, only the lantern came forth, stretched out by a cloaked arm. Light invaded the tower, forcing Pocket to retreat as far back into the foundation as he could go, his back pressed against the stones. He would be discovered! And then there would be no place to hide! His fear mounted, a fear matched only by the trepidation in the invader’s voice.

“Child?” It was a reluctant whisper, tremulous and uncertain. “Child?”

Pocket’s whole body relaxed and Napper hopped free, striding out into the light without a care to rub against Moragh’s leg. She stepped into the cavernous chamber and set the lantern on the ground, rubbing between the cat’s ears in the same stoop. She was breathing heavily, her body and head wrapped in a heavy woolen shawl to guard against the chill in the stones. Pocket crawled out from under the wooden beams, his relief doing nothing to dispel his confusion. Why had she come? He never told anyone about his haven. Not even her. How had she known? But his questions fled when he saw the small clay pot in her hand, the aroma of stewed kale tickling the air between them. Pocket hurried forward and she handed the pot over without a word. There was a wooden spoon inside and Pocket tucked into the stew with a vengeance. It was barely warm now, but he did not care, it was painfully delicious. He looked up at her and smiled, trying to get words of thanks past his lips, but he was too busy with his first real meal in days, barely chewing before swallowing and shoving another spoonful into his mouth. Moragh watched him eat, her expression fixed, almost blank. The pot emptied quickly and Pocket raked the spoon around the edges for every last clump.

“Thank you,” he said at last. “I will help you back to the kitchens and scrub this out.” He went to grab her hand, but Moragh avoided him and took a half step back, blocking the tunnel. She tried to force a smile but it turned into a sad twitch across the palsied half of her face. His shoulders slumped, the brief respite from his isolation and despair fleeing him.

“It is still not safe.” He forced himself to say it aloud.

Moragh remained silent while Pocket stared at the broken floor. It was nigh on a week now. It should have passed. It always passed.

“When?” he asked. “When can I return?”

There was a pause and then her voice came in a broken whisper. “Never.”

His head shot up. “Never?”