Wren takes the tea — her feet are already complaining, and the root-brew smells of something reliable. Old Maret pours without ceremony and goes back to stirring. "Dawn crossing," Old Maret says to the fire. "Sensible. Whatever walks the Milking Stone keeps bankers' hours — gone by first light." The tea is bitter and warm and does something inexplicable to her toes. She leaves before full sunrise, because two nights is not very many and she intends to count them honestly. The Thornwood takes her east. She navigates by root-slope and the cold the old woman described, half-following a deer track that seems confident it knows the way. By the time pale light needles through the canopy, she can hear water. The Milking Stone is wider than she expected. A flat grey ford, current shallow over white stones — almost pretty, except that the far bank's mud is churned deep and fresh. Something large walked there very recently. Something large, and not alone.