The campfire had dulled to embers by the time they returned. Charcoal-red coals pulsed under a skin of grey ash, casting a faint heartbeat of light across the marsh mud. Under the sagging canvas lean-to, Serelith crouched with her sleeves rolled, stirring a dented tin kettle. Chicory and nettle hissed where droplets of rain slipped from her pink fringe and pattered into the brew; every hiss smelled of damp earth and bitter herbs. She hummed off-key, the sound somewhere between a lullaby and a threat.
Beside her, Mikhailis lounged on a wooden crate, bare feet stretched toward the warmth. His coat lay across his shoulders like an ill-fitting cape, and a half-flattened honey pastry sagged between his fingers. Sugary crumbs dotted his trousers and the crate lid in a constellation only he seemed to understand. I should sit up and look respectable, he mused, but then I'd be lying about who I am. He took another bite instead.
