Wren picks up the clay cup at last, says it to the fire rather than to Old Maret: "Come with me. Along the longer route." A beat. "I'll carry your pot." Old Maret's mouth does something that isn't quite a smile. She stirs once more, deliberate. "I'm a traveller, not a guide. I have a mule and a commission in Westfen and no interest in Aldermere." She reaches over and presses the cup firmly back into Wren's hands. "Drink that." Wren drinks. It tastes of bark and honey and something she cannot name. "However," Old Maret says, rising from the log with the ease of someone who has risen from worse, "my road to Westfen runs alongside yours for the first three leagues. I can see you to the fork before the marsh." She begins banking the fire with a boot heel. "The moon has — what, four nights?" Wren counts in her head. "Three." Old Maret says nothing to that. Her silence does the work.