Three days after Daren's visit, a package appeared on my doorstep.
No note. No name. Just a length of good oiled rope — the kind used for complex weaving — and a bundle of dried wolfsbane wrapped in a cloth the exact color of the sky before rain.
I stood in the doorway and looked at it for a long time.
Harlan appeared at my shoulder. "Well," he said.
"Well," I said.
"Rope and wolfsbane."
"Yes."
"The rope," he said carefully, "is for the charm-weaving you do when you're anxious. And the wolfsbane is for the fever suppressants you've been running low on." He paused. "That's a very particular combination for someone who had to guess at what you needed."
I picked up the rope. It was quality work — not a market trinket but a craftsman's rope, the fibers tight and even. My fingers recogn
