Pip would not eat at supper.
It inspected the fresh clay, opened its jaw, and moved away. The antler buds had grown enough to catch a hanging thread on the underside of the abandoned stall. It jerked free, clicked in pain, and retreated beneath the blanket rack.
Ysabet tied the thread up. She did not carry the bowl after it.
Chaska had made the soft oats too thick. She added water, thinned them too far, and stood over the pot with a face which suggested she might strike it. Ashaun took the stirring spoon from her.
“Go and wash.”
“I’m not dirty.”
Ashaun looked at her muddy knees.
“I meant your face.”
