"Borrowed," Wren says, before she can think of a better answer. "He died three days ago. Fever. He asked me to carry the quest before he went — there was no one else. I said yes." She does not add that she has no idea if that was brave or simply foolish, though the thought is present and loud. The brook woman is quiet. The stream fills the silence. Then something moves across the old woman's face — not surprise, but grief arriving at last, unhurried and heavy. "Three days," she says softly. "He never made it out of the village." She turns to look at the Thornwood a moment, then back at Wren. Her expression has settled into something that is not quite sympathy and not quite decision, but somewhere between the two. She reaches for the wooden box and rests her hand on the sun clasp without opening it. "All right," she says. "Then you'll need to hear what he knew. But first — your name, girl. Not his. Yours."