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“We can survive without his grain.”

“No, we cannot.”

“We have before.”

“Not through this winter.”

He turns away and grips the back of a chair.

“I should have kept the daler,” he says.

“What?”

“The one I returned. Perhaps a wealthy woman would have refused the bastard.”

A laugh nearly escapes me. Grief steals it before it forms.

“I need you to watch the clinic.”

“I am not a healer.”

“You know every family in Lowtown. Find Lissa from the miners’ lane. She assisted during last winter’s fever outbreak. She can follow my ledger for common treatments.”

“And if an illness is not common?”

“Send word to the stronghold.”

“You think they will let you return?”

“I will make it difficult for them to refuse.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one I have.”

Lissa arrives carrying an empty medicine basket and wearing an expression of alarm. I walk her through every shelf, treatment mark, and dosage. I show her which roots become poisonous when boiled too long and which tinctures must never be given to infants.

She writes quickly.

“You are expecting me to remember all this?” she asks.

“I am expecting you to read my ledger.”

“What if I make a mistake?”

“You ask Bran to send for me.”

Bran looks unconvinced, but he agrees.

I find Nessa at her market stall.

She listens without interrupting, both hands wrapped around the edge of her closed ledger. Her loose hair moves across her face in the wind.

“Rhysandir Morwen’thir?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“You have never met him.”