Vash clasped his knife against his palm with his thumb and solemnly lifted the apple between his two hands. “Sórú. This is water.”
Kraaia leaned close and repeated, “Sórú” like a dutiful student, but she watched her teacher’s hands more closely than his lips.
“What is this place?” Kraaia asked uneasily.
Vash lifted his head to turn it towards her in annoyance, but his eyes stopped fast at the sight of other faces glaring out of the wall.
The girl’s body was achingly still but for the bird-stir of her fluttering heart and the panic of her panting breath. Her frigid bravery shamed Vash a little, for he thought her fright would seem as shameful as nudity to her had she known he could hear. He was ashamed he had told her not to be afraid.
Sleep seemed a cold, dark lake, and Kraaia bobbed just at its surface, afraid to let herself drown.
Diarmait’s young wife had been waiting for him. He had felt the chill of her stare in the cold iron of the door handle. He felt it on his face as he entered. He felt it on his shoulder as he passed.
“So!” Estrid said conclusively to Astrid. “After that walk I wager you’re hungry enough to eat a dozen sweet buns.”
“Ladies! Put down your… what sort of princess is it today?” Estrid demanded.
Wherever Lady Gwynn might be, there was Condal certain to be found—and Lady Gwynn was in Malcolm’s hall.
“What do you want?” Kraaia groaned. “Did you know that it is rude to shout at people and tell them to come here?”
The harder Father Faelan tried to stomp the slush off his boots, it seemed, the more gluey mud they picked up from the floor. The flagstones of the low entry of Acanweald Keep were so thickly crusted that a handsome half-circle had been swept smooth over them by the swinging door, in the style of snow angels.
“Prop me up if you can, but if I start to fall, you tell everyone to get out of the way.”
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