Brella had gone off to forage for edible berries and roots, leaving Scratch alone at the campsite. For want of something better to do, she laid out everyone’s bedroll. It took roughly thirty seconds. She then searched the stream’s bank for the heaviest stones she could find and arranged them in a circle so that the fire might burn a bit longer. She knew it to be a wholly unnecessary move. The night was warm, and between the food the Shaes had packed and the foraged roots, it was unlikely that they’d be eating anything that required more cooking than a cursory grill. But her hands were restless, as was her mind. If she were to sit, she was sure she’d be set upon by visions of disaster and ruin, too-clear memories of her worst failures. Her brain was used to working at speed, and now, sidelined like a racehorse with no rider, her mind was frothing and stamping, a confined, muscled machine making itself sick with unspent energy.

“Nice stones.”

Brella stood at the edge of the forest holding the hem of her apron. Roots and berries weighed down the cloth that now served as a makeshift basket, the red juices from burst fruit dappling the fabric.

“You’re going to stain your apron.”

Brella shrugged. “That’s what aprons are for.”

“But the embroidery!” It was fine work, the stitches tiny and immaculately placed, depicting strange plants Scratch didn’t recognize.

“Vel can do more.”

“Vel did that?”

“Did he not say he was a seamstress?”

Brella upturned her skirt, unceremoniously dumping the spoils of her foraging by Scratch’s stones. She then took a small knife from her boot, plopped down awkwardly, and began peeling the vegetables.

Scratch scoffed. “You’re making a mess of that you know.”

Brella flicked a chunk of mangled root from her lap. “I expect that the maids at the castle have a somewhat lighter hand.”

“A bear would have a lighter hand.” She made a noise of impatience and held her palm out to Brella, who gamely plopped a fat root into her outstretched hand. She removed her kitchen knife from its fancy sheath and set to work, grinning to herself when she received Brella’s anticipated low whistle of appreciation.

“You’re good at that.”

She shrugged. “Knife work is knife work.”

“Ah. So you’d skin a man with the same sort of finesse.”

“What? I’d never skin a man! I only mean—”

“I know, I know. You prefer women.” Brella smirked, knowing eyes twinkling. “I know the type.”

Prickling heat crawled up Scratch’s face as she gaped, speechless. Luckily, James and Vel chose that moment to return, flushed and grinning, arms laden with twigs and branches. James looked a bit punch drunk, his eyes glazed and sparkling, his lips reddened.