She looked out over the fields, thinking. “I don’t know if the world will let us have that.”
“Not yet,” I replied. “But maybe someday.”
She leaned her shoulder against mine. “Thank you.”
A fire was burning merrily when we came back inside.
It was a proper hearth, stone-lined with a wide mouth. Someone had added a fresh log, and it crackled softly as it caught, sending sparks up the chimney. The children had gathered close, one of them sprawled on their stomach with a bit of chalk, drawing shapes on a slate tile while the youngest dozed against a pile of folded blankets.
Finn was sitting up now, color returning to his cheeks. His mother hovered less, though she stayed within arm’s reach, a hand resting on the back of his neck like she was reassuring herself he was still warm and breathing.
We joined them without ceremony.
Tamsin took a seat on the low bench by the fire, and Finn immediately shifted closer, drawn to her like gravity. She didn’t comment on it. She just adjusted her position to make room, resting an arm along the bench behind him. The other children watched her with frank curiosity, the way children do when they sense someone important but don’t yet have words for why.
“Are you really going to London?” the oldest girl asked bluntly.
“Yes,” Tamsin answered.
The girl’s eyes widened. “My da says nobody goes to London unless they’re soldiers or fools.”
Tamsin smiled a little. “Your da’s not wrong.”
That earned a quiet laugh from the adults.
The father poked at the fire. “You’re not fools then, right?” he asked quietly.
“No,” Tamsin agreed. “We’re not.”
Finn leaned toward me, pointing at the little carved wolf in my pocket. “It’s supposed to look like her,” he said, pointing at Tamsin.
I blinked. “Like her?”
He nodded vigorously. “She’s a wolf too, right? She’s not scared. Wolves aren’t scared when they’re together.”
Tamsin’s hand stilled on the bench. She didn’t look at me, but I saw her swallow heavily.
“That’s kind of you,” she said to Finn. “But it’s all right to be scared.”
He frowned, considering this. “Okay,” he replied. “But you didn’t run at least.”
“No,” she agreed. “I didn’t. And I have my pack.” A smile graced her face, and though she was looking at Finn, I think we all knew it was meant for us, too.
That seemed to satisfy him. He leaned back, eyes drooping again, and his mother gently guided him to lie down against the cushions by the hearth. The youngest followed suit, curling up with a thumb in her mouth, the chalk forgotten.
The room settled into a comfortable quiet. Firelight painted the walls in warm gold, and for a moment the world felt almost… intact.
Tamsin caught my eye across the hearth. There was a question there. I could tell that it wasn’t about Finn, or about London, but aboutthis. About whether it was all right to let herself sit and be present for a few minutes without thinking ten steps ahead.
I nodded.
She exhaled.
Later, when the children were fully asleep and the fire had burned down to a bed of coals, the family showed us where we’d bed down for the night. There was a loft space above the barn, clean and dry, smelling of hay and wood. We climbed the ladder quietly, settling into our places without a fuss.
I lay awake longer than the others, the little carved wolf resting in my palm. I turned it over once, thumb tracing the rough lines. It wasn’t perfect, but neither were we.
At first light, we were all up and back in the house.
