Wren draws herself up to her full height, which is not much when the armour adds two inches in the wrong direction. "I know it wasn't supposed to work this way," she says. Her hand finds the sun-sigil on her breastplate — the same shape, the same sun as the clasp. "But here I am, wearing his armour, holding his parchment, standing where he should have stood." A breath. "I swear on this sigil. What he swore to keep, I'll carry. The Ember reaches the village before the moon is full. The clasp goes back with it — it isn't mine to keep." The Brook Woman is still for a moment that stretches like pulled wool. Somewhere in the Thornwood, nothing moves at all. Then she holds the box out, both hands, careful as you'd carry something borrowed. "He said something very like that," she says quietly. "The first time." The box is heavier than it looks.