Rain on the ridge is a curtain with opinions.

Waymarks, if you set them, hold their lines. The church tower behind, when you look, is a pin through wet wool. Aelric puts the parchment inside his shirt. Hop becomes a cloak-shaped lump on Jennet.

Thatcham’s roofs offer a barn. Mab, if you know her or if custom knows you, keeps a roof for weather. That is hospitality that is not an inn and not a hospice: a farm that understands travelers as a kind of livestock with stories.

You can keep to the marks and eat miles.

Rain flattens the ridge-grass. Marks hold if you set them; if you did not, guesswork grows. Aelric’s parchment against his chest is a heartbeat of list. Thatcham’s barn is a mouth of dark and hay. Holmewell’s bell, far, is optional music.