A silver fog filtered the morning light and rounded the edges of the awakening world. Gentle puffs escaped from chimneys into the sky and village life resumed. There was a rustle of footfalls on the trodden path outside the orchard. Somehow a dog barked twice and stopped, satisfied.
Serakha was pacing up and down between the rows of the orchard. Her wrap was wet at the hem with dew, and the tips of her fingers floated a little above the young leaves, as if she were afraid to touch them. The trees were small, not much higher than our shoulders, but they were straight and firm. Even the wind appeared to still for them, as if to listen.
She let out a breath and dropped into a crouch, her fingers finding purchase in the earth. There was a pulse under her skin, not pain, not quite fear. And more like a heartbeat whose number she had simply forgotten.
