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The memory of it had long ago lost its sting.

What had happened was a fact no more or less shameful to her than that she had scrubbed floors and served ale.

But it was a reminder of who she was and had always been.

A reminder that she was from a different world, a worse world, than him.

Whatever misfortune had taken him from his home and put him at the mercy of villains was only temporary. That was not his true fate.

The long dagger was still clutched to her breast, pressed against the other blade that hung from her neck beneath the linen.

She said her usual prayer of thanksgiving with a little more fervor, put on her hose, then pressed her lips to the dagger before slipping it into her boot.

It soothed her, to have it where it belonged.

She watched sunlight play on the water while Fuss dug at the ground, covering himself in dirt as he tried to reach the center of some creature’s burrow.

They would come to the end of this forest soon.

Chesterfield could not be more than half a day’s journey from here.

They must go to the market there, to buy provisions and avoid poaching any more.

But after that, Wales was days away. More than a week, even did they not dawdle.

She began a new prayer, that they might somehow hold the world back, or that they would find a way to fit this fragile bliss into the reality that awaited them. She closed her eyes and silently pleaded that she would not have to let him go. Not him too. Not yet.

When she opened her eyes, he had appeared.

Down the stream a little, he stood with his back to her.

She rose and went to him, Fuss running ahead as always.

He had her purse of nails, and the little silver knife that she had left behind in their bed.

The sight of it troubled her. She did not like to think of how much she needed it, how her fingers would not let it go in the night even as he held her.

There was an old stump of wood he aimed at, throwing one nail after another at it. Few of them stuck, though he threw with great force. He only paused for the briefest moment when Fuss settled at his feet, then threw again.

“You could kill him,” he said when the nails were spent. He held the little silver knife in his palm. “Why do you not seek revenge?”

An impossible question. As well ask why she did not drain the seas after the destruction of a tempest. She looked at his thumb rubbing across the grip, interrupting the light that gleamed on metal.

“Would it erase the scars from me, or the memories I bear?” She barely noticed it came out in Welsh. “Would it raise Oliver from the dead?”

He shook his head. “Nay. But I cannot understand how you have no hate in your heart.”

She almost laughed at that. No hate.

“There is enough hate in my heart to burn down the world entire.” Her voice shook, her throat ached from the effort required not to scream it.

She looked at his profile and gathered the rough fabric of her dress tight into her fists until her fingers grew numb.

“But you are in the world,” she said. “You are in my heart.”

He turned to her and she felt naked again. She meant to say they must go to the market today, that he would never reach his home if they wasted days in wandering.

Instead, she stepped forward into her fear and kissed him, because he made her greedy and fearless.

He made everything new and beautiful. She had no care for the market, or the road that awaited them, or their journey’s end.

She only cared for him, and so they stayed there all through the day and night.

H e had begun to imagine Nan in his mother’s solar, looking out over the valley below, framed by the carved stone of the window and the hills beyond. But then he reminded himself that the stone was probably rubble now and even if it weren’t, he could never go there again.

As they moved westward, she became more real than his memories – of the thieves, the abbey, the years spent as hostage.

Only Aderinyth seemed as vivid as she was, as important.

His mind kept serving up images of her there, with him.

He saw her on the mountain path that led to the most hidden nest of white gyrfalcons.

He imagined her listening intently to Philip Walch, who would love her like a daughter.

He knew with a certainty she would never sneer at the place or the people, and that she would look at the mountains in the same way she had looked at the ceiling of the cathedral.

He knew he wanted her there, but was afraid to ask for it.

“I’ve no coin,” she announced as they entered Chesterfield. The way she said it and the set of her mouth told him that the money she had sent to her sister was the last she had. “I must earn some while we are here.”

His assertion that she need not do so, as he still had a little left from the long-ago sale of the hawk, was politely disregarded.

He watched her eyes light up at the sight of an old man selling meat pies, then was amused to hear her quiz the man on his method of cooking them.

It seemed to meet her approval in the end, and she said she would return to buy some once she had found a place to sell one of her knives.

Gryff saw her touch one of the blades on her forearm. He had seen her touch them in moments of idleness, her fingertips rubbing over the letter stamped at the base when she was lost in thought. She cherished them, and she had already lost one on this journey.

“Would you trade a pie for entertainment?” he asked the old man suddenly.

That was how they found themselves, an hour later, with a crowd of onlookers placing bets on what the fair maiden could hit with her knife.

She did not like it as much as she had when she’d shown her skill in the privacy of Hal’s yard, but she did not object.

Gryff was careful to stay close to her, gathering all her winnings into a basket he bought for the purpose.

He kept it in easy view so that she might say when she had enough.

In the end, there was a small pile of coins, food enough to last them a week, and a few too many admirers for her comfort, or his.

Only one man was fool enough to reach out for her as she walked away, his voice urging her to stay while his eyes held a greedy, lecherous look.

Gryff moved swiftly between them and stamped his boot on the man’s foot.

His own hands were full, but he would drop everything if he must and take up the knife at his belt.

He did not need to do more than look at him for a long, hard moment before the man slunk away.

“Will you teach me that?” asked Nan as they walked away from the market. She had pulled a meat pie from the basket and was licking the juice of it from her lips.

“Teach what?” he asked, attempting to tear his attention from her lips. He seemed to spend most of his days pleasantly distracted by the sight of her mouth, and his nights more than distracted by the feel of it.

“The way you looked at him.” She said it with her mouth full, and swallowed before continuing. “You looked like the king himself, and would throw him in a tower or have his head on a pike. But it’s calm-like, not full of temper.”

His father had had that look, and his grandfather too – the eye of Arawn , they called it in his family, likening their belligerent pride to the pagan god of the Welsh underworld, gathering souls with a glance.

He almost said as much to her, almost told her how the bard had stood beside the great open hearth and sung the legend of Arawn, how his brother Owain had loved it best of all the poems, how Gryff was the only one of his brothers who did not quail when their father gave that fabled look.

He did not say any of it. They were dead. He could never be that person again.

He knew she thought him a falconer, like Hal, employed by some wealthy household before misfortune landed him here. There was no reason to tell her otherwise. It was the only thing he would be, from now on. Just a simple falconer, and not even one of great status such as Hal was.

“Can it not be taught, Welshman?” she asked with a grin, before taking another bite of her meal.

She never called him by his name. To her he was only Welshman, and each time she said it, his heart felt lighter. A simple Welshman, safe from anyone who would throw him in a tower.

“I think me your defenses are more use than any look,” he assured her. “The sight of your blade is enough to drive away all but the most witless.”

They gave a coin to a man who let them shelter for the night in a loft above his granary and Gryff counted himself witless when she bared her body to him, wrapped her legs around him, but would not set down her blade.

Her fist stayed closed on the silver knife, though it stayed in its sheath and she never held it to him after that first night.

He had begun to dream of the day she would let it go, and take off the dagger that hung from her neck as well.

It became entwined with the vision of her in Aderinyth, as though he need only to bring her there and her doubt and distrust would melt away.

In the morning, they made their way to the crossroads outside of town. They could continue west through the rolling hills and dales and reach Wales in as little as a week. Or they could follow the southern road, travel much farther, moving southwest until they crossed into Wales closer to his home.

He still did not know where she intended to go – only that it was north of Aderinyth, and so the western path was hers, the shorter path.

He could ask her destination, but somehow the words would not pass his lips.

They stood at the crossroads without speaking, the heavy basket of provisions slung over his shoulder.

He would follow her, to wherever she journeyed. He could make his way to Aderinyth from there. Without her, if he must.

“Will we go south now, or later?” she asked.

In all their journeying, she had never asked him this. She only chose the road silently, leading him by hidden ways to where he wished to go. Now she stood very still, her eyes trained on the ground, a delicate color high on her cheeks.

“South?” he echoed.

“To Aderinyth. There is coin enough to last the journey now. If you want... If you would have me come there.”

He dropped the basket and kissed her, relishing the sound of satisfaction and relief that came from her.

He remembered himself in time to keep from devouring her right there.

She was so fierce that he forgot sometimes how small she was, how easy it was to overwhelm her slight form.

But now she kissed him back, her hands holding his face.

“Home,” he said, smiling against her lips. “Aye, I would have you there.”