The silence stretched on between them as the woman tried to make sense of the girl's admittance. Invisible eyes lingered on her shoulders and back but no one spoke to deny the child's truth or push them apart. The woman's lips pressed together in a thin line as she bit the inside of her cheek, looking away. Where confusion had settled in her chest at the townspeople's avoidance, now was replaced with disgust. Keeping her face turned away from the child's view, she glares at the shifting curtains and darkened windows, hoping that the eyes watching them would meet her gaze.

"Are you one of them, miss?" The girl asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

The woman grunts, venomous words weighing her tongue down. Contempt writhes in her chest amidst the disgust. She was vaguely aware of the people watching them from the windows, the stillness of the air, and the girl's shifting feet once their eyes met and the woman's gaze bore into her own. It was as if the world has stilled for a moment and what she said next would decide whether it would keep turning.

"No," she says, dismissing the girl's sigh and shaky smile with a turn of the head. "But that doesn't mean you should blindly trust strangers."

The girl pouts, bowing her head and rocking on her heels, eyes downcast. “But not a lot of good people come around anymore,” she mumbles, peeking up at the woman. “And you’re a good person, right miss?”

Gone were the warnings and scoldings the woman’s mind could produce, her lips parted but not a sound coming forth. She wanted to say no. Admit to her that there was no such thing as good people and that believing otherwise was a fool’s errand. Though the longer she deliberates on what to say, the surer the girl seems, her smile returning in full-force and nearly blinding the woman with its cheer. She huffs and looks away, ignoring the girl’s little jig as she celebrates her ill-gotten victory. Bartolomeo neighs and snorts at the woman who rolls her eyes and elbows him in the side.

“Enough out of you,” she hisses at him, her sharp glare pinning the girl in place. “Is there a place you can stay until your mother returns?”

The girl taps her chin then wanders further into the road, pointing straight ahead. “There’s an inn not too far from here,” she says, looking up at the woman when she approaches. “If you want I can take you there.”

Surveying the desolate road, the woman’s frown deepened. Though the lanterns lit the way, nooks between houses and emptied spaces writhed with the semi-somnolent dark. Weighty gazes lingered on her shoulders and back, while she had no doubt ears were pressed firmly to the walls waiting for another word to be uttered. Her gaze flitted to the little girl at her side. Questions sitting at the forefront of her mind were pushed aside as another howling gust of wind tore through the streets, barely passing through her own clothes but making the girl quiver and shuffle in place.

“What did I say about blindly trusting strangers?” The woman asked, crossing her arms, regarding the girl with a side-eyed glance and raised brow.

“That I shouldn’t blindly trust strangers,” the girl sighs, rolling her eyes, lips drawn up into a toothy grin though her legs were shaking. “But I’m not blind, and you’re not a stranger anymore, we’re friends.”

Without missing a beat, the girl practically skipped over to Bartolomeo’s side. He turned to greet her, licking the palm of her hand when offered and brushing his muzzle against the crown of her head. The woman looked on in complete silence, her arms dropping to her sides, trudging over with a shake of the head. “You should be careful on whom you call a friend,” she said, her voice firm and addressed as much to the little girl as it was to the listening ears. The little girl looks up at her and the woman feels something shift in her chest. Reprimands slowly die and she sighs, one hand settled on her hip while the other pats the top of the girl’s head, the tight coils flattening for a second before springing up again. “But your heart is in the right place.”

“So does that mean we’re friends?” The girl tried, her crooked smile smaller than the broader blinding one she’d worn before.

The woman looked into her eyes and offered a hand. Her calloused fingers and rough palm, much larger than the child’s, helped to lift her up onto Bartolomeo’s saddle with the woman following shortly after giving the stallion a quick pat on the neck and soft murmurings in his ear. Holding the reins, the woman gave them a quick snap and spurred the stallion into a trot down the road, kicking up a cloud of dust in their wake. The little girl marveled as the scenery past them by, pointing out her favorite places to play or places she’d been, her hand clutching the saddle’s horn everytime she shifted one way or the other. While she directed them to their destination, her question was momentarily forgotten and the woman’s shoulders sagged, clutching the reins tight enough for her nails to dig into her palm. She stifled a harsh breath when the little girl twisted at the waist to regard her with wide eyes and an onslaught of questions.

“Why’d you come to Patun anyway?”

Unbidden, the woman’s eyebrow quirks. “Am I not allowed?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” the girl stammered, and the woman hummed in response. “Like why Patun, mom says that Ind.. Ide.. Uhm…”

The woman stays silent as the girl tries to sound out the name. Her thoughts wandering towards a field of weapons left without warriors to wield them, a town of souls lying in wait, and the prospect of washing after two weeks on horseback. Despite the kindness the girl had shown her, she still averted her gaze when their eyes locked for too long. The children who'd pushed her and goaded her into approaching were nowhere to be found but the woman had a feeling they were watching as well.

Although no stranger to scrutiny, she hated not being able to stare into the eyes of her judgers. Casting narrowed eyed glares into the windows as they passed didn't suffice but she was certain it sent a message. She hadn't expected hospitality nor hostility, and although the former wasn't guaranteed, she wouldn't shy away from defending herself from the latter. Huffing out a sigh, she glances down at the girl who's taken to drawing out the letters on her thigh.

Counting backward from twenty, the woman waits then whispers, "Inndela."

The girl's head shot up and whipped around, smile bright. "Inndela," She shouted, nodding too quickly for the woman to take her seriously. “Mom says that's where all the important people go, to pay for stuff.”

"Homage," the woman corrected, continuing when the girl tilts her head. "The sultana lives in Inndela, people from all over go to pay their respects to her, and ask for her wisdom, blessings, and prayers."

The girl stared up at her, mouth agape, and the woman could practically see the gears turning in her mind. Slowly, almost shyly, the girl draws her lower lip between her teeth and looks away. They ride in almost complete silence aside from Bartolomeo's clopping hooves and quiet grunts, and the saddlebags thudding against his sides. The woman thinks to ask her a question but holds her tongue, staring at the back of the girl's head for a moment then towards the road ahead.

Cold seeps into the woman's clothes, barely brushing against her bones, but the girl trembles. Undoing the ties on her cloak, the woman pulls it off and wraps it around the girl's shoulders, laying the hood over her head. From underneath the hood, the girl regards her with wide eyes but the woman looks ahead pretending not to see the girl bundle it around herself.

Ahead of them, the road split into four directions, one being the path they'd come from, another north of them leading out of town, and two others to the east and west. On the corner of the road ahead of them, a wide log-walled building sat, its mismatched orange-brown shingles covered with moss, light spilling from the windows illuminating the porch. Outside, several hitching posts were planted in front of watering troughs, and the woman patted Bartolomeo's side as he trotted a little faster at the sight of it.

"Is this it?"

The girl nodded, and the woman frowned. Underneath the woman's cloak, she seemed much smaller and frailer than before. Her voice was almost non-existent, cheer a distant memory, as if she was only a ghost of her former self.

"Do you think she'd bless Patun?" The girl whispered, voice wistful and hope-filled yet lost. "Get rid of the bad people?"

The woman pursed her lips and thought hard on what to say. She could feel the weight of her opinion, asked the Mother of All why she'd been tasked with such a thing, and accepted it all in the same breath.

"I—"

"Shali!" A shrill voice yelled, drowning out the woman's response and tearing her gaze away from the girl.

Bartolomeo reared up on his hind legs and kicked at the air, snuffing and shaking his head wildly. The girl tumbled back into the woman's chest, almost falling from the saddle. Wrapping an arm around the girl, the woman held fast and hunched over her, shielding her face from anymore flying rocks. Backlit by the inn's porch lights, a little girl dug through the dirt and mud. Her ink black hair, coiled and pinned atop of her head in a loose bun, fell in thin whisps around her face. Dark eyes bore into the woman's, flicking momentarily between her face and the little girl hidden beneath the cloak.

The glint of another stone hidden in her hand caught the woman's eye but she made no move to release her hold or come closer.

"Don't hurt her," the bundled-up girl muttered to the woman, wriggling out of her hold. "That's Helia, she's my friend." 

Friend or not, the woman's patience was wearing incredibly thin. She'd had more than enough of Patun's hostility and its people. Rocks whistled past her head, nicking her cheek and the tip of her ear. Bartolomeo bucked and her arms wrapped around the little girl, holding her tight to her chest as they fell tumbled backward. The dirt was cool and refreshing beneath her cheek but the sharp throb at the back of her skull, and aching pains running up her spine weren't. Her hold on the girl loosened allowing her to wiggle free, pulling back the hood and leaning over her. 

"Miss, are you okay?"

"Shali, get away from her!"

The woman grunted in reply. Vision swimming, the outer edges of her sight rimmed with red, fingers digging into the dirt and pressing fistfuls of mud into her palms.  

"Look at what you've done, Helia!"

Shali's hand hovered over her skin as if unsure where to touch. Her fingers brush against the woman's cheek before being pulled away, cradled at her chest. 

"Your skin is hot," she mutters. "Are you alright, miss?"

Hot was an understatement. Her skin was on fire, the mud pressed her palm melting into sludge wedged between her fingers. The red rimming her vision deepened and she shut her eyes, jerking her head to the side as she rolled onto her arm. One hand pressed into the mud, she pushed herself up and staggered to her feet, swaying until she found her footing. Taking a deep steadying breath, her eyes opened and Shali took a few steps back while Helia lowered her throwing arm.

"Don't throw another stone," the woman ordered, teeth gritted and nostrils flaring. "Understand?"

Both girls nodded and the woman closed her eyes, shoulders falling and fist unclenching. Her eyes shot open when the door to the inn slammed open, creaking on its hinges as a woman in a striped smock came out. 

"Helia, Shali, what's going on?" She asked, looking from the girls to the mud-covered woman and irate horse. "Who is this?"

Both girls clamored up the rickety porch steps, talking over one another as they tried to explain their points. The woman huffed, walking to Bartolomeo and taking him by the reins, whispering soft encouragements in his ear and apologies for bringing them to this place. Eventually, he calmed and pressed his muzzle against her cheek, licking away dirt smeared across her skin. Her nose wrinkled and she pushed his head away. 

"Excuse me," a soft airy voice interjected, and the woman glanced over her shoulder at the woman in the striped smock. "My name is Geda."

When the woman didn't respond, Geda slowly nodded and glanced down at the two girls hiding behind her skirts. Helia glared up at the woman while Shali bundled her cloak tighter, the fabric dragging in the dirt. 

"Perhaps you could come inside," Geda offers, barely concealing a wince at the scrutinizing stare the woman sends her way. "Shali says that you helped her get here, and I truly appreciate it."

"She shouldn't have been out this late," the woman replied, her lips set in a firm line and jaw clenched.

Geda clamped a hand over Helia's mouth as her lips parted. No doubt to tell the woman off, an inevitability that she resigned herself to, meeting the girl's venomous glare with a raised brow. She'd seen scarier looks on kittens. 

"Okay, girls, go inside and get cleaned up," Geda says, clapping her hands together then turning, ushering both children up the steps. "Dinner will be ready soon and I want you both clean. With soap, Helia!"

Once the door to the inn swung closed, Geda sighed. Her curly dark hair, tied up back in a low ponytail, was beginning to come undone and slip into her face. She brushed her fingers through it, glancing at the woman with dark eyes and a worn smile. Part of her upper lip was cut along with a wide jagged mark along her neck, the scars standing out from her russet skin. Wiping her hands off on her smock, she picked under her fingernails for a second then offered her hand.

"You really must not be from here," she says, giggling when the woman glances down at her hand. "I won't hurt you, I promise."

The woman doesn't move to take her hand but Geda doesn't seem to hold it against her when her attention shifts towards the window. Two little shadows peeking through it quickly dart away. 

"I'm sorry for Helia, she shouldn't have thrown those rocks at you."

There was a long list of things that the woman wished Helia hadn't done but the rocks was a start. 

"And I'm grateful you didn't set her on fire," Geda laughs, and the woman's cheeks burn. "Even though she can be a little infuriating."

Looking away, the woman ran her fingers through Bartolomeo's mane. She could hear distant laughter amidst the wind. Her eyes hooded, and hand pressed reverently against Bartolomeo's side, she sighs.

"You're sisters."

"How'd you know?" Geda asks, her voice breaking with surprise. "Everyone thinks I'm her mother with how we behave."

The woman looked towards the sky and sighed, "Lucky guess."

"Well, with how your night is going, it seems you need a bit of luck."

She almost laughs until the hairs of the back of her neck stand on end. Breathing in deep, she narrows her eyes and glances over her shoulder at Geda. The small flintlock pistol pressed into her lower back glinting in the porch light. 

"Now, why are you here?"