This morning, though, something seemed unquiet. Mop could not determine what it was, but something was disturbing the silence of the fields. At sight, nothing seemed amiss: Dawn had flushed the sky with deep pink light; the sheep, having left their shelter, were ambling over the dew-soaked grass; the morning breeze that had set the wildflowers nodding was already tinged with warmth. But something was awry; Mop was certain. Something in the air was bright as knives. It was sharp against him, needling him.

Hurry, hurry, the air prickled at him.

It would be a lamb having wandered away, he was sure.

Hurry. The needling grew more urgent, pushing him across the field and into the mountains. Hurry.

Mop started into the hills, clambering up the rocks and over the worn patches of earth, his knees complaining at the steepness of the climb. Nessa would not be pleased to wake and find him gone, and even Mop had to admit it seemed foolish—lambs usually did not stray so far. Nessa would berate him for traveling without a spear. Wild boar… and bear… he was not a young man. Harebrained, Nessa would say.

Still. It would not hurt, now, to climb a little farther—just to the top of the ridge. From there, he would have a view of the valley and its fields and encircling forests.

By the time Mop had finally reached the ridge, the sun was well on its journey across the dome of sky. But the ledge itself saw none of this warmth: The wind that whipped across it was incessant and bitter, and here and there, under the shadows of boulders, ice glazed the puddles left by storms. Though all the air here felt like hurrying blades, he saw no wayward lamb.

Shivering, Mop wrapped his arms around himself. Harebrained. Yes. He had been. His tunic was not enough to keep him warm; he had not eaten; no lamb would climb this high. Nessa would be calling for him, strolling among the sheep, tending to them in the way she always tended to things. She would be muttering to the ewes—Where has that old airmonger gone now? What daydreams have taken him wandering?—and yelling out across the field—Ay, Mop! Come back to your flock! There’s work to be done.

Yes, he was sure he heard her voice, a faint cry, even here. Ay, ay!

He turned to go.

But just then, out of the corner of his eye—a flash of gray.

Mop spun around. Below him, slinking along the cliff, moving between the stones—he caught a glimpse—the hindquarters of a wolf. A tail disappearing behind a boulder.

Heart lurching, Mop gripped his staff. Was there a pack lying in wait?

Oh, how foolish he had been.

He stared at the boulder, waiting for the creature to appear again.

But then he saw it.

Not a wolf.

On the ledge.

Just there.

In a patch of sunlight.

Little bundle.