22—Feather SoupThe following day, after the midday meal, Emi and I were taking the remains of a dozen chickens out through the gate in the back of the compound wall to the rubbish pit when we heard a sharp hiss from behind our dormitory. She and I blinked at each other, dull and incapable of thought after the long ordeal of plucking and butchering the birds.
“Emi! Murasaki!” It was Aimaru’s voice, whispering as loudly as he could manage.
Blinking at each other again, Emi and I scanned the compound. It was not snowing—it hadn’t in over a week—but it was bitterly cold as only those mountains can be, and everyone seemed to be indoors, shutters closed. I led the way back to where Aimaru was hiding.
Our friend was wearing what looked to be every piece of clothing he could pull on—he could ba
