Her instinct was to begin walking, to find her way out—to follow, if she could, whatever wagon tracks had been left behind—to find her way to a village or farm, anywhere she might beg for food. For shelter. For—she plucked at her shift—clothing. But Maurus… he was always forthright.

Wait.

Well, then. She settled herself against a tree trunk. Wait.

Waiting did not result in anything the first day.

Nor even the second.

There was hunger and thirst, and the dry autumn color of the forest, and the rustling of creatures in shadows. There was digging for roots and bitter unhappy chewing; there was searching for puddles and patches of dew and not enough drinking. There was damp and cold, and a long hour of storming, and wet and shivering. There were auguries, a few, all inauspicious—lightning flashing, a startling zigzag across the sky, a crow flying out of a hollow oak. There was moss and mud. Biting midges. Thirst. Thirst. Thirst. She clutched the shard.

Wait.

The third day was all rain. Not rain with drops large enough to drink, but a steady, hazy drizzle that chilled her through. Alba sat in the damp, thinking—as much as she could, so cloudy was she with hunger and cold and thirst—that she had made a terrible error. Perhaps a life-ending error. She would never summon the strength now to find her way out.

She half drowsed, half dreaming in the stuporous cold. The vision of a man limped out of the trees. My wolf, the man said. My bird. The shadows of birds were wet in the branches. The man pointed to a bird, needle-beaked and immense, to a wolf hiding in the fold of its wing. Keep her safe, the dream-man begged as Alba woke and saw nothing but shadows and trees and rain.

She half drowsed again. A dream of a mule and a wagon came to her. A vision of a man descended from the wagon.

“You poor thing,” said the vision. A nearly bald head bent over her. It shone in the rain. “Here.” She dreamed a blanket was wrapped around her, dreamed she was led to the wagon. “Warm yourself up now. Sit right here. It’s dry under the covering. I said too many days gone, but he said you’d wait, said you’d know to stay put. There you are. Bundle up—here’s a cloak for you, too. Poor thing, you’re soaked and chilled to the bone. There’s a skin of water under the seat. A salted hock, too. Let’s get you home.”

In the pleasantness of this dream, in the wool-and-ham-scented warmth of this dream, Alba finally drifted fully to sleep.