The brook woman holds the box out. Wren takes it — lighter than it looks — and strips off one gauntlet to work the sun-clasp with actual fingers. It is stiff. Old. It clicks open with the sound of something long-decided. Inside, on a bed of dry grey moss, sits a river stone. Smooth. Amber-dark. Warm — far warmer than a cool morning can account for, warmer than a palm can make a stone in two seconds of holding. It glows, faintly, from inside — like a coal that has not quite given up on being fire. "A waystone," the brook woman says, as if that explains everything. "It knows the Ember. Get within half a mile and it will pull like a tide." She picks up her clay jar and tucks it away. "The road north takes you out of the Thornwood. Don't lose it. Don't drop it in water." A pause. "And don't mention in Aldermere where you got it."