Too bad it wasn’t a market day, Han thought. On a market day they’d have got no attention at all. Which would’ve been fine with Han, who was growing tired of explaining his sodden clothes. It was a relief to duck through the doorway of the Matriarch Lodge and escape the relentlessly rattling tongues.

A fire blazed in the center of the lodge, hot and smokeless. The interior was fragrant with winterberry, pine, and cinnamon, and the scent of stew wafted in from the adjacent cooking lodge. Han’s mouth watered. Willo’s house always smelled good enough to eat.

The Matriarch Lodge could have been a small market, all on its own. Great bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling, and casks and baskets and pots lined the walls. On one side were paints and dyes and earthenware jars of beads and feathers. On the other were the medicinals—salves and tonics and pungent potions of all kinds, many rendered from the plants Han gathered.

Hides stretched over frames, some with designs painstakingly drawn on them. Three girls about Han’s age huddled around one of them, their sleek heads nearly touching, brushing paint onto the leather.

Hangings divided the room into several chambers. From behind one curtain, Han could hear the murmur of voices. Patients and their families often stayed over so the matriarch could tend them without leaving the lodge.

Willo sat at the loom in the corner. The overhead beater thudded as she smacked it against the fell of the rug she was weaving. The warp stretched wide and winter-dark, since weavers worked a season ahead. Willo’s rugs were sturdy and beautiful, and people said they kept enemies from crossing your threshold.

Still shivering, Bird disappeared into one of the adjacent chambers to change into dry clothes.

Willo laid down her shuttle, rose from the bench, and came toward them, skirts sliding over the rugs. Somehow, Han’s resentment and frustration faded, and it was a better day.

Everyone agreed that the Marisa Pines matriarch was beautiful, though her beauty went deeper than appearance. Some mentioned the movement of her hands when she spoke, like small birds. Others praised her voice, which they compared to the Dyrnnewater, singing on its way to the sea. Her dark hair fell, beaded and braided, nearly to her waist. When she danced, it was said the animals crept out of the forest to watch. She was a crooner, who could speak, mind to mind, to animals. Her touch healed the sick, soothed the grieving, cheered the discouraged, and made cowards brave.

When pressed, Han had trouble even describing what she looked like. He guessed she was in a category all on her own, like a woodland nymph. She was whatever you needed her to be to find the best in yourself.

He couldn’t help comparing her to Mam, who always seemed to see the worst in him.