The party assembles at the east ridge-mouth, which is a muddy truth whether you arrived by bridge or by Bram’s rope.

Aelric with parchment. Jennet with Hop on a hip, then on feet, then on a hip. Col if his horses were allowed one-by-one over a narrow deck, or if they swam nothing and waited. You with paint on your cuff or river on your shins.

The list is a spine. Thatcham first. Tower as a pin. Do not follow a leaning anything.

Someone—always someone—has heard the marsh is shorter. Reeds look soft. Soft is not kind.

From the ridge-mouth you can look back: Lynne like a brown belt, packhorse bridge a stitch, hospice a dark roof, inn a kettle, ferry a thread south. Forward: Thatcham’s tower when the air allows. The list and the land agree, which is a rare kindness.