"Three nights," Old Maret says, before Wren has finished asking. "Two, if you count the moon honestly." She sets the spoon on the stone rim and finally looks up — eyes like polished flint, missing nothing. "The Ember sits in the Aldermere Shrine, half a day east through this wood. Old stonework. A hollow oak beside it. You'll know it by the cold that comes out of the ground — the kind that has nothing to do with the weather." She picks the spoon back up. "The east path crosses a stream called the Milking Stone," she adds, almost casually. "At night something walks that bank. I'd advise daylight for that crossing." A tap of the spoon against the pot's rim. "I have a root-tea that'll keep your feet warm. And I know a path through the wood that skirts the stream entirely — though it adds hours." She looks at Wren. "So."