“Thank you,” Iseult said, and she meant it. After shoving the map into her pocket and slinging the satchel onto her back, she repeated: “Thank you.” Then she did something she’d never done to anyone but Safi—and certainly never to Alma. She grabbed her in a quick embrace. Too fast for Alma to pull away. Too fast for Iseult to reconsider.

Then she released the other woman’s shoulders, grabbed Owl’s hand, and led her toward the Solfatarra. Owl’s Threads drooped with disappointment, blue melting off the sage Threads that build. But the child would forget Alma soon enough, just as she’d forgotten Zander and Leopold and even her precious Blueberry. At least this time she had the Painstone to numb her heart to any pain.

Strangely, Iseult wished she had one too.

They did not travel far before Iseult pulled Owl beneath a broad spruce tree, its branches a skeletal frame insulated with sharp, freshly scented needles. Iseult unpacked the satchel from Alma while Owl watched on curiously. With much drama—as if she were Safi opening a birthday present—Iseult withdrew item after item for Owl to see.

First, she found a roll of fresh linens and a small jar, which turned out to be a willow-bark salve. “This will help your wrist,” she told Owl in what she hoped was a cheerful voice.

Next, she withdrew a wheel of cheese (goat, judging by the smell) and bundle of smoked meat strips (also goat). She gave one to Owl for gnawing, even as the girl made a face and her Threads fluttered with disappointment. Two weeks ago, Iseult had discovered the child hated goat. One week ago, Owl had realized that sometimes it was all she got.

Next came a water bag, empty but still useful. And last, Iseult withdrew a wool blanket, thin and cream-colored. She draped it over Owl. “Tell me a story,” Iseult whispered while she opened the jar of healing salve and set to carefully slathering it on her neck, her hands, her collarbone. All the places the Solfatarra had bitten.

Owl obeyed, her words muffled by tough goat meat. “Long ago, when the gods walked among us, Trickster took pity on a little witch and her pet hedgehog.”

When she’d finished the tale and was singing the final refrain once more—Save the bones, save the bones!—she seemed to have forgotten the cold. Her little breaths still fogged, but the rich gray of discomfort was gone from her Threads.

So Iseult took her chance to steal away and fill their water bag. There’d been a small stream nearby, frozen over and possibly acidic, but worth examining. She reached it in minutes, the icy surface covered in fresh snow, and after crouching on the shore, she tapped gently at the ice. It reminded her of the Aether Well. Threads that break, Threads that die.