Sophie Holloway wrenched her sword from the creature.

The Sun Hound collapsed to the ground. Red spittle dripped from its canines, and the wound on her ankle gave a painful throb. She took a step back, watching as the hound exploded in a shower of golden goo; several droplets spattered her trouser leg. She sighed. Godsdamn it; she'd just done the laundry yesterday.

She leaned against a tree.

Her ankle began to burn. The creature wasn't poisonous — she'd fought enough hounds lately to know — but their teeth felt like sawing your bones off with a serrated knife. She needed to get bandages and a cold compress on it.

But how to get home?

She leaned over the cliff. A steep waterfall plunged toward the valley, unravelling like a spool of blue silk; houses sprouted from the banks like bulbous mushrooms. She'd climbed up here, although there was no way that she could scramble down the side of the waterfall with a busted ankle. And the only other route to Tarhalla was two miles south.

Unless she grew wings, Sophie thought. That was sounding like the best option to get down, so far.

"Sophie!" a voice called.

She turned.

A local village boy was running toward her, one hand pressed to his cap. Jasper, she thought; even from this distance, she could make out the splash of freckles on his face. He paused, red-cheeked and panting.

"I told you, Jasper," Sophie said, not unkindly. "Outside of the village, it's Mary"

"Oh. Right." The red deepened. "Sorry."

Sophie shifted her weight. "Did you need something?"

Her ankle groaned in protest. Jasper's eyes snapped to the wound — tattered, bloody, the skin flayed like spaghetti — and he gripped a tree.

"What happened to your ankle?" he asked.

She wiped her sword on her trousers. "Sun Hound."

"Here?"

Jasper looked alarmed. Not, Sophie thought, that she blamed him; the Sun Hounds had never come so close to Tarhalla before. Still. There was no point in giving the poor boy nightmares, so she shrugged.

"It was just one hound," she said. "Reckon it probably got lost."

The first part was true; the second part, not so much. But Sophie was used to operating on half-truths and omissions, so her voice came out even.

Jasper assessed her ankle. "Can you walk?"

"I'll be fine," Sophie said. "What did you need?"

"Oh." Jasper's eyes flicked to her face. "Habs is looking for you."

"He is?"

Surprise flitted through her. She had no idea why the burly ironsmith wanted to see her. In the six weeks that they'd camped out in Tarhalla, Sophie had visited the forge only once for a new sword. Habs wasn't an enemy, but he wasn't a friend, either; it wasn't like he fancied having a cup of tea and chatting about the rising price of muslin.

Then again, Sophie thought wryly, she didn't have many friends that wanted to chat about muslin. Didn't have many friends in general.

Unless you counted Henry.

But Henry was different.

"He said it was urgent," Jasper said.

"Right." Sophie assessed the trail. "Do you know the way there?"

"Yes."

"Good." She rummaged in her purse, placing several rukka in his hands. "Run ahead and tell Habs to make me a cane. Keep the change."

Jasper took off down the dirt path. Sophie took an experimental step; pain shot through her ankle. She gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes until colours burst like fruit stamped underfoot. She could do this. She had to do this.

"Stupid hound," she muttered.

It was an excruciating hour-long journey. By the time Sophie reached the village, her ankle burned with liquid heat. Sweat beaded her neck. She paused at the bakery to catch her breath. The scent of lemon tarts drifted through the window, and a sharp pang of sadness filled her. Anna loved lemon tarts.

She gritted her teeth.

She took another step. Pain shot through her leg, and Sophie closed her eyes. Welcomed it into her body, just as she'd taught Anna to do. The best way to conquer something was to understand it; to dissect the nature of it.

Ten steps.

Twenty.

She paused at the door to the forge. The sound of a hammer striking metal drifted on to the street, and she could feel the heat of the fire radiating through the wood. Someone was whistling. She pushed it open.

Habs turned. He was wearing a stained apron, his curly red hair tied back with a ribbon. He'd had a beard once, Sophie knew, although he'd shaved it off when it caught fire last spring; now, a large purple burn wreathed his mouth.

"Holloway." Habs turned back to the forge. "You look like shit."

"Cheers, Habs." Sophie leaned against the door. "You have my cane?"

Habs nodded, wiping his hands on his apron. Then he crossed to the counter, rummaging beneath it. He held out a silver rod; it was sturdy, Sophie observed, with no engravings or jewels. She was unsure whether it was because she'd placed the order so late, or because Habs knew she didn't care for ornamentation.

"Looks nasty," Habs said, nodding at her ankle.

Sophie took the cane. "The little sucker caught me by surprise."

"Did you kill it?" Habs asked.

"Naturally." Sophie leaned on the stick. "You wanted to see me?"

"Oh. Yeah." Habs went to stroke his chin, and then dropped his hand. "That healer's looking for you; the one with the baby. She was looking proper distressed."

Sophie sighed. June. She should have known; June was always distressed. She'd spent the last few months coming up with elaborate schemes to break into Stillwater Castle and rescue her husband from the dungeons. And while Sophie sympathized...

Her grip on the cane tightened. They had bigger problems to deal with.

"Did she say where to meet her?" Sophie asked.

Habs picked up his anvil. "Something about a place that sells medicinal herbs?"

Blazon and Sons. Sophie knew it; it was an apothecary just around the corner. She nodded, limping toward the door.

"Thanks, Habs," she called.

It wasn't a far walk to the shop — only about 200 metres — but it took Sophie longer than she'd gambled. By the time she arrived, June was stepping out the door, carrying a brown parcel in one arm and a baby in the other. The healer stared at Sophie's ankle the same way that someone might stare if they'd discovered a spider in their bed.

"Holy Nyxos," June breathed.

Sophie shifted the cane. "Looks worse than it is."

"You need some somnium," June said. "Or a poultice." She turned back the shop. "They had some herbs that might take the—"

"I'm fine, June," Sophie said. "Honestly."

She limped towards them. The baby looked up as she approached, and Sophie shook his tiny fist gravely.

"Well met, little pea," Sophie said.

The baby gurled. Sophie looked at his meaty fist — tiny, wrapped around her finger — and tried to decide how to delicately extract herself from the situation. June smiled.

"Sawyer likes you," June observed.

Sophie picked a brown chunk out of the baby's hair. "Please tell me this is chocolate."

"Henry came by earlier," June said. "He brought chocolate biscuits."

Sophie sighed. "Of course he did."

Henry had probably brought a rattle and a pair of knitted boots, too. He'd always been good with children. Knew how to speak to them. How to play with them. Sophie, on the other hand, thought of children much like she thought of a lightning storm: interesting from a distance, potentially dangerous up close.

June bounced the baby on her hip. "He's good with Sawyer, you know. Not many people have that natural instinct for children. It makes me wonder..." She paused, as if deciding how to phrase it. "You and Henry never wanted kids?"

Something heavy settled in her gut. "You know what our marriage is like."

Most people in Tarhalla knew the story. Sophie's fiancé, Sendry, had died in the War of Nightmares. Henry had been a young man working at his father's bakery. They'd met when Henry catered a Yulemas banquet at the castle, and when the castle fell, Henry had married Sophie to shield her from discovery. They'd raised Anna together.

June raised an eyebrow. "And your marriage is still like that?"

Sophie leaned on her cane. "Henry's my best friend. He always will be."

June shrugged. "Love stories have been built on less."

"Did you need something?" Sophie asked.

She was growing annoyed. And she hated being annoyed; hated feeling much of anything, really. Her ankle pulsed, going hot and then cold. June rocked the baby in her arms, patting his head absentmindedly.

"Henry was asking after you," June said. "He said it's important."

Her annoyance vanished. "Is he alright?"

"He looked a little..." June hesitated. "Well. I think you should go speak to him."

Sophie didn't need to be told twice.

She took off in the opposite direction, hobbling toward their house. Her ankle throbbed with every step. The cobblestone gave way to slick grass, and it took an effort to maneuver the cane through the grass; twice, Sophie stumbled on a hole, and she swore under her breath as she reached the porch.

She pushed open the door.

"Sophie?" Henry's voice drifted from the kitchen. "Soph, is that you?"

Relief filled her. "It's me."

"Thank gods." Heavy footsteps sounded down the corridor. "There's something that I need to tell—" Henry paused, a tea towel slung over his shoulder. "Burning hells. What happened to your ankle?"

Sophie leaned against the wall. Sweat dripped down her face, and her good leg was shaking with the effort of staying upright. Henry started toward her, his red hair rumpled, and she held up a hand.

"It's fine," she said.

"Sit. Now."

His voice brooked no argument. If it was anyone else, Sophie thought, she would have laughed in their face. But this was Henry; he was the only person that got to order her around. She collapsed in an armchair.

Henry crouched at her feet. "I don't think it's broken." He turned the ankle, his large hands surprisingly gentle. "Does this hurt?"

Pain shot up her leg. "No."

"Liar," Henry said fondly.

He rotated her ankle, watching her face closely. A dull ache began in her foot. Sophie drew a deep breath, focusing on Henry's hands: large, calloused, flour caking his fingernails... She knew those hands. They were capable hands, Sophie thought; they knew how to bake an orange polenta cake and lift a grown man's purse. They had changed over the years, becoming stronger and thicker, but they were the same hands that she'd fallen asleep to for seventeen years.

A wave of fondness went through her. Henry rose, making for the kitchen. Glass jars rattled, and Sophie frowned.

"What are you doing?" she called.

Henry emerged, uncapping a bottle of vodka. "This is going to sting."

Sophie's frown deepened. "I'm honestly— ow." She hissed out a breath as the alcohol stung her wound. "Stars, Henry. Some warning would have been nice."

Henry offered her a half-smile. "There. All done."

He produced a wad of white bandages. Sophie had no idea where they'd come from, which was standard practice with Henry; he might not have magic, but he was a magician in other ways. A lump rose in her throat.

"Thank you." Sophie hesitated. "Henry, you know that I..." The lump grew thicker. "You're a very good friend to me. You always have been."

Henry's mouth tightened. "You've been a good friend to me, too."

He rose, winding the bandages around his wrist. He was thinking about something, Sophie observed; he got the same expression when he was scheming up his next cake. "Pistachio-and-lemongrass." "Miso-caramel-and-apple." The weirder, the better. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

"What were you going to say?" Sophie asked.

Henry paused. "What?"

"When I walked in," Sophie clarified. "You were going to tell me something."

A look of surprise flitted across Henry's face. He turned on his heel abruptly, stalking toward the kitchen; he was carrying a letter when he returned.

"A raven came this morning." Henry held it out. "Read it."

Sophie took the letter.

Her grip fumbled. Sophie traced her thumb over the words, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She knew this writing; it was as familiar to her as the lines on her palm. She turned it over, but there was nothing on the back. Anna had written only two words.

Be ready.