Wren sits on the nearest stone — armor clanking against packed earth — and the fire hits her like something she hadn't realized she was missing. Old Maret ladles two cups of something that smells of thyme and apple and hands one across without asking. "Aldermere isn't a place," Maret says. "It's a keeper's name. There's always one — a woman who holds the Ember until she passes it on, and another waiting to receive it. The current keeper lives in a willow-break eight miles east, where the Millford stream bends back on itself twice. You'll hear the water before you see her fire." She looks at Wren over the rim of her cup. "She won't simply hand it to you. She never does. But she listens, if you speak plainly. You seem to know how to do that." Wren stares into the thyme-steam. Eight miles. And on the far side of them, a woman who doesn't simply hand things over. "What does she usually want in return?" she asks. Maret smiles, which is not exactly an answer.