Chapter 15
The onions are making me cry.
Chemistry. That's all. Strong onions, watering eyes, completely normal biological response to—
"You're holding the knife wrong."
Kestria's voice cuts through and I blink, refocusing on my hands—she's right, I've been sawing instead of rocking, pieces uneven, some paper-thin and some chunky enough to choke on.
"I'm distracted."
"I noticed." She bumps my hip with hers. "Here. Let me."
I hand over the knife and step back, wiping my eyes on my sleeve.
The cooking fire's burning well—checked it three times, keep checking it—and the pot's simmering with the base I started an hour ago.
Smells good. Should taste better once the onions go in.
If she cuts them properly. She's cutting them properly.
Did I add salt? I added salt. Pretty sure I added salt.
"You're spiraling."
"I'm not spiraling. I'm thinking."
"Your face does this thing when you spiral." Kestria scrapes onions off the board into the pot without looking at me. "Your eyebrows go all—" She scrunches her face in demonstration.
"That's not what I look like."
"That's exactly what you look like. What are you thinking about?"
The jar. The quarter jar. Fenna's wound closing because I had barely enough—spread too thin, took twelve extra minutes to break the fever—and what happens next time?
When someone's bleeding gray and I'm standing there with one weak jar and a prayer?
Who rations when a child is dying in front of you—
"Supplies."
"You're always thinking about supplies."
"Because we never have enough of them." I grab a root vegetable from the pile and scrub. Dirt, water, motion. "The moonbright paste. What I made from those leftover petals is barely a treatment. And that's all I have."
"I know."
"And you said that Keer hasn’t found anything either."
The vegetable's clean. I keep scrubbing anyway, dirt under my nails, water cold against my fingers. "Next attack happens, someone dies."
Kestria's quiet for a moment, stirring the pot. Onions sizzle when they hit the liquid.
"What do you need?"
"More moonbright. Obviously."
"Where do you get it?"
"There's a field. Near my—" The word catches. "Near the cottage. Where I used to—it grows there. Wild. Biggest patch I've ever found." Better concentration than anything cultivated, faster processing, proper growing conditions under old canopy. "If I can just get there and back without—"
"That's a long way. Full day there and back, at least."
"I know."
"What about where you were attacked? You found moonbright petals there, right?"
My hands stop on the vegetable.
"Not enough." Back to scrubbing. "And—the cottage field is bigger. Plus, there's a market. Small one, near the cottage. I need—chickens. More chickens."
"More chickens."
"For eggs. The pack needs eggs, Kestria. Protein. And Nugget needs friends, she's getting aggressive from loneliness—that's why she keeps attacking people and eating rocks. Chickens are social animals. She's losing her mind by herself."
"The chicken is aggressive because she's lonely."
"Yes."
"That's your theory."
"Yup." I set down the vegetable and grab another one. "And a rooster. We need a rooster or we can't hatch more chickens, and then what? The supply just ends when these ones die? That's not sustainable—"
"Mel."
"What?"
"Eggs?"
"Yes."
"That's the reason."
"A valid one."
She's looking at me. The vegetable's going to have no skin left.
The pot bubbles. Neither of us says anything. Fire crackles and I'm staring at the vegetable I've scrubbed raw, hands still going because they don't know how to stop.
Should start on the carrots? Or check the bread situation. When did we last have bread? Need to figure out flour—
"I could go with you."
I look up. She's watching me over the pot, wooden spoon paused.
"You said it's near your cottage. I obviously know the way." She shrugs. "Two people are safer than one."
"Kestria—"
"Don't argue with me. You need the flowers. I can help you get them. Girls day!"
I grab another vegetable.
"So we're getting chickens and a rooster." She resumes stirring.
"And maybe a goat."
Kestria drops the spoon entirely. "MEL."
"Goat's milk! For the pack. Cheese eventually, if I can figure out how to—" I wave my hand vaguely. "You people can't just keep hunting forever. What happens when game goes scarce in winter and everyone's starving because no one thought to diversify?"
"Mel."
"What?"
"Let me get this straight. You want to go to your old home, gather poisonous flowers, stop at a market, and buy a small farm's worth of livestock. All in one trip."
"I mean, when you say it like that, it sounds complicated."
"It is complicated."
"It's efficient. Everything's in the same direction. Market first, moonbright after, then back." Baskets for the flowers, rope for the goat if we get the goat—probably get the goat—cages for the chickens unless I can rig something from spare wood—
She stares at me. The pot's boiling now—should adjust the heat—but neither of us moves.
"I had goats once."
I don't talk about the cottage. Don't think about it unless I have to. But the market, the route—everything pointing back toward the life I built and the life that got burned down, and my mouth's already open.
Kestria's eyebrows go up.
"At the cottage. Years ago. Two of them." Used to follow me around, bump their heads against my legs, steal food right out of my pockets. "I loved those goats. Was going to breed them, have a whole herd. Make cheese. Sell it at the market."
"What happened to them?"
"Wolves ate them."
Silence.
"Came through one night. Killed both. I found what was left in the morning."
More silence. The pot bubbles, steady and oblivious, and a log shifts in the fire.
I look at her. Her hand's over her mouth. She's failing to hide the grin.
"Those were your wolves. Weren't they."
Kestria's face goes through guilt, horror, and the desperate need to laugh—all three losing to each other in turns.
"Mel, I'm so—"
"It's fine."
"It's not fine, we ate your—"
"It's fine, Kestria. I forgive you retroactively. Circle of life and all that." I dump the vegetables into the pot. Water splashes over the side. "Now I'm going to buy goats for wolves. The irony isn't lost on me."
She makes a sound. Half laugh, half choke.
"Don't you dare laugh."
"I'm not laughing."
"You're definitely laughing."
"I'm—" Biting her lip hard, shoulders shaking. "You're just—you're going to buy goats. For the wolves. Who ate your goats."
"Yes."
"And you're fine with that."
"What choice do I have? Stay angry forever? That seems exhausting." I stir the pot, adjusting the temperature down. Finally. Should've done that five minutes ago. "The goats are dead. New goats exist. The pack needs milk. Move forward."
Kestria loses the battle. The laugh comes out bright and warm, and my mouth curves.
"You're the strangest person I've ever met." She's still smiling at the pot.
"We have established this multiple times."
"I mean that as a compliment."
We finish the stew together, talking about nothing important. What herbs to add. Whether the vegetables are soft enough. She passes the salt before I ask for it. I adjust the heat without being told.
Kestria sets her bowl down. "So we're doing this."
"Tomorrow. Early. Before anyone can argue about it."
"Market first?"
"Market first. Then the moonbright field. Then back before dark if we move fast."
"With chickens."
"With chickens. And a rooster. And possibly a goat."
"Possibly."
"Probably. Almost definitely." I ladle stew into bowls. "You should rest. Your wound—"
"Is fine. I've been resting for days."
"You took a poisoned blade to the side."
"I didn't die. I'm here. I'm helping." She takes her bowl and settles beside the fire. "Tell me about the market. What's it like?"
I tell her. Small trading post, barely a village. The woman who sells chickens always haggles but her prices are fair if you know what you're doing, which I do—years of practice. The route, how long it'll take, what we'll need.
The food is warm and the fire is bright and Kestria is here, alive and healing, asking whether roosters are actually necessary or just ornamental.
I don't sleep well. Coin math and goat prices and the faces of children I haven't lost yet, all tangling together until I give up and pack in the dark.
Morning comes too fast, and I'm awake before dawn loading supplies into the cart I spotted behind one of the storage structures—wheels rusted but functional, bed solid enough.
Rope—check. Water—check. Coin from my dwindling reserves, enough for chickens definitely, rooster probably, goat maybe if I haggle well and the chicken woman isn't in one of her moods.
Prices always go up. Baskets for the moonbright, multiple sizes—need at least three because the petals bruise if you stack too deep.
Extra cloth. Bandages—always bandages. Knife. Where's my—pocket. Good.
Nugget watches me from her corner, pink and judgmental.
"You're staying here."
She clucks.
"I mean it. You'll attack someone at the market and I'll get banned and then where will we be?"
More clucking. Aggressive. I point at her.
Nugget clucks once more, final word, and goes back to pecking the corner.
Kestria appears at my dwelling's entrance, dressed for travel, color good despite the early hour. Moving easier than yesterday—no hitch in her step, no guarding of her side.
"Ready?"
"Almost." I stuff the last basket into the cart and step back. "Food. Water. Coin. Rope. Baskets. I'm forgetting something."
"Knife?"
"Have it." I pat my pocket. "Something else."
"Bandages?"
"Have those. But there's—what am I forgetting?" I count on my fingers. "Two people, full day of walking, possibly longer if we dawdle at the market—I always dawdle at the market—plus water for chickens in transit because dehydrated chickens don't travel well—"
"Then we should go." She grabs the cart handle before I can. "I'll pull first. You navigate."