Wren sets the cup down and turns. The thing stands at the tree line — taller than seems fair, coat the deep charcoal of dead ash, with something wrong where a face should be: a pale oval, smooth as the inside of an egg. No eyes she can find. And yet it is unquestionably looking at her. Old Maret makes a small sound behind her. Approving, or amused — it is difficult to say. The Watcher does not move. It simply continues. After a long moment it tilts its head, the slow, curious tilt of something that has never quite seen this before, and Wren realizes with a cold jolt that the tilt is aimed at her breastplate — or at the sun-sigil faded across it. She can't be certain which. "Does it do that often?" she asks, not looking away. "Only," Old Maret says, setting her spoon aside, "when it recognizes something."