The basket Adra Pike carried up the stone ramp was woven from split willow wands, weathered to the dull silver of river driftwood and lined with a clean square of bleached flour sacking.
She set it down upon the flat coping of the low roof wall with the careful, deliberate movement of a woman who had spent forty years measuring bushels of winter wheat, seed potatoes, and dried beans against the threat of mountain famine. She pulled back the linen wrap. Then, the rich, nutty steam of freshly griddled oat-cakes rose into the freezing predawn air. She mixed with the bitter smell of damp moss and cold granite.
‘Eat while they have heat in them,’ Adra said without ceremony. They gestured toward the round, thick cakes. ‘The flour came from the upper terrace bins. If we’re leaving this valley in seven days, there is no virtue in saving the best grain for mice to nest in.’
Kezra took one of the cakes, feeling the solid warmth through her thin woolen glove. She broke off a corner and offered it to Paxa, who accepted it with a nod of skilled test. Even Yseld, who rarely accepted food from anyone outside her immediate patrol circle, took a cake and began chewing with steady, careful discipline.
