Nan listens with her whole face, which is a skill.

You tell her the cups. Shaded water, cattle-churn. The horn that never had to exist for the rule to be good.

She slaps her knee. “We protected what we loved by calling it holy. That is not a cheat. That is a tool. When the holy wears off, you still need the love, and a gate, and a fence-gap, and a miller who can count something besides silver.”

She is proud of all three contradictory tales and will not retire a single one. She will, however, add a fourth: the story that keeps a living thing alive by making it expensive to harm.

“A long name for a pretty job,” she says. “Keeping a living thing alive by making it expensive to harm.”

Mira grins. “Council or market? Father hears crowds. Voss hears markets.”

Nan is already wrapping a shawl. “I can do both in one day. I have practiced.”