Nola nodded, as if this was a perfectly adequate answer. “Sit,” she said, indicating a stool by the table. Alina sat, her back straight, hands folded in her lap. The wood was cool against her thighs, and she could feel the knots and whorls through the thin cloth of her trousers.
Nola went to the far wall, where a stove and a cupboard were located. “Relax,” she said, took a cup from a shelf and a kettle from the stove and started to pour hot water.
“You’re here to learn,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“I am?” Alina replied, and immediately hated herself for how small her voice sounded.
Nola pulled a jar from the shelf, opened it, and pinched a few green leaves between her fingers. She dropped them into the mug and set it in front of Alina.
“Drink,” she said. “It will help you sleep.”
Alina did, while wondering why she obeyed this woman’s every command. Was she under some kind of spell? And if so, was there any danger lurking under the surface? She stretched out her senses for a moment, but all she felt was calm. She swallowed and wasstartled by the taste—sharp, almost electric, but with a sweetness that lingered on the tongue. She drained the mug in three gulps, feeling the warmth chase some of the cold out of her bones.
Nola watched, her expression inscrutable.
“There will be time for stories tomorrow,” she said. “Tonight you sleep. Your body and mind are exhausting and you need both to learn.”
Alina started to protest, but the tea hit her like a hammer. Her limbs went loose, her jaw turning heavy. Nola caught her as she tipped forward, and with surprising gentleness, lifted her and carried her to the bed. The last thing Alina noticed was the softness of the furs and a faint smell of lavender coming from them. Sweet nothingness beckoned and she gladly fell into it.
When she woke, the world was a puzzle of green shadow and soft light, and for a moment Alina did not know where she was. It took her several breaths to remember: the valley, the impossible village, the woman with the silver-streaked hair and the gaze that could pin butterflies to a card. The air inside the tree house was sweet and heavy with the smell of drying herbs and the heavenly, savory scent of meat. It felt dense, protective. It was a different species of air than what she’d breathed in the rebel Caves.
She tried to sit up but found herself pinned by the weight of a patchwork quilt. The effort made her head swim, but the pain in her limbs was less than before, and her hands, when she flexed them, stung only a little. She had the weirdest sensation of being blurred around the edges, not entirely real.
Across the room, Nola stood with her back to the bed, cooking something at the stove that produced that wonderful smell. She wore a different tunic, this one the color of river silt, and her hair was pulled back to expose the sharp lines of her jaw. There was a delicacy in the way she moved, the economy of motion of a person used to work and at one with her body.
Nola turned, saw Alina was awake, and nodded. “Good. You slept through the night and the morning. It was exactly what you needed.”
Alina tried to say something, but her throat was dry and tight, her voice little more than a croak. Nola set the spoon aside, crossed to the bedside, and offered her a cup of water with a single word: “Drink.”
Alina did so, letting the coolness wash away the stale taste of sleep. She emptied the cup and handed it back, not quite trusting herself to speak.
Nola inspected her face, her eyes, her hands. Then, without warning, she pulled back the quilt and began to examine the rest of Alina’s body, probing gently at each bruise, each cut. Alina flinched at first, especially as she realized that she wore nothing but her underthings, but the older woman’s touch was sure and impersonal, like the hands of Sage Wintermend—nothing wasted, nothing meant to hurt. Nola took a pot of thick salve from the windowsill, scooped some with her fingers, and worked it into Alina’s torn skin. The stuff was cold and greasy, but it dulled the sting and left a tingling numbness in its wake.
“I can do that,” Alina offered, too late. Nola ignored her.
“Your skin is soft,” she said, not unkindly. “Too soft for mountain walking. Did they not teach you to wrap your hands?”
Alina made a face. “I was not planning on falling so much.”
A flicker of a smile, gone as quickly as it came. Nola reached into a chest and drew out a bundle of cloth, the color of old parchment, the fibers so fine they felt like skin. “Wear this,” she said, setting it on the edge of the bed. “Your own clothes are nearly done for.” She gestured to the heap of filthy, torn jacket and trousers that sat in a sad lump by the fire. Someone—Nola, presumably—had cleaned off the worst of the blood and dirt, but it looked beyond salvage.
Alina unfolded the new garment, feeling the fabric shiver between her fingers. It was soft, undyed, cut loose but with an odd precision, like it had been tailored to fit various body types. She stood and slipped out of her old underthings, grateful that Nola turned away to tend to the meal. The new robe felt like water on her skin.
She drifted to the table and sat, glancing at the shelves, the jars and bundles, the odd arrangement of stones and feathers and what looked like the skull of a fox, painted with runes. The room was a cluttered map of Nola’s life, but every object had a place, every disorder was controlled.
“Are you a healer?” Alina asked, the question coming out before she could filter herself.
Nola filled a plate with the finished food, set it in front of her, and said, “Among other things.” She sat across from Alina and devoted herself to her own plate, eating with quick, efficient bites.
Alina stared at her plate. It was a thick slice of seared meat leaking juice, accompanied by fresh green vegetables and creamy smashed potatoes. It smelled better than anything she’d tasted in weeks. She took a forkful, and nearly moaned. Trying not to burn her tongue, she forced herself to slow down.
Nola watched her for a moment, then picked up a small leather-bound book from the table. She opened it, flicked to ablank page, and began to write, the nib of her pen scratching in a brisk, regular rhythm.
Alina ate in silence, feeling the food work its way into her blood, making her bones heavier and her thoughts less brittle. Warmth and softness spread through her belly. It was heavenly, and she finished half the plate before daring another question.
“Is this… a town? A commune? What do you call it?”
Nola did not look up from her writing. “A home,” she said simply. She kept writing, never breaking the rhythm.
