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"I have brought you soup. You didn't eat it."

"I was—" Idonea began.

"I know."

A silence, but Lidiya's gaze hadn't shifted.

"I'll have warm food at the hall when you come back," she said. "If you come back hungry, eat. If you do not, leave it. I don't mind either way."

"Thank you."

Lidiya inclined her head a fraction. She looked once more at Idonea, longer than was comfortable but not so long as to be impolite, and then her eyes flicked briefly to Lysander where he stood on the path behind, and then she resumed her walk past them.

Her shoulder brushed Idonea's as she passed. The shawl smelled faintly of woodsmoke and damp herbs.

Kitsa was already moving again. She didn't turn to watch Lidiya go.

"She doesn't talk to many people," Kitsa said, as if it were nothing. "Don't take it personally."

"I didn't."

"She likes you, I think."

"How could you tell?"

"She talked to you."

Idonea glanced back, briefly. Lidiya was already further up the path, and she didn't look back.

“How old are you?” Idonea asked.

“Nineteen,” Kitsa said, grinning over her shoulder. She veered towards the riverbank. “There’s a patch of herbs across the river. Come on.”

“They let you wander down here all on your own?”

The mist off the river was thick enough to blur the treeline.

“Why not?” she asked. “Well, there is a Templar on watch nearby.”

Idonea couldn’t believe they hadn’t told the witches of the daemon. How dangerous it was to be out like this, unwarded, and unprepared.

Kitsa leapt onto a mossy rock slick with lichen, then bounded to the other side with a dancer’s grace. She turned and waved. “Easy!”

Idonea hesitated. Her boots weren’t made for this. Lysander had caught up to them. She could feel the heat of him, unsettling in its muted steadiness.

She jumped, landing on the rock with a skid. Wonderful. Lysander’s hand ghosted near her elbow but didn’t touch. She hated that she noticed.

Kitsa caught her after the next jump and spun her forward, laughing like they were children.

Lysander crossed with ease and didn’t speak. Of course he didn’t.

Beyond the trees, the clearing appeared. A hollow in the forest, rich soil where there should've been frost. Not a flake of snow touched the ground. The air carried the faint sweetness of green growth, wrong for this season.

Kitsa unlatched the crooked wooden gate and slipped inside. Idonea followed, drawn despite herself as warmth pressed against her face, soft and damp. Her breath didn’t mist here.

Lysander stopped at the gate, arms folded. He didn’t cross the threshold.

“You told him not to come in?” Idonea asked.