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I woke that morning still holding the little book, the candles having burned themselves out sometime during the night. That was all right; they had been nearly spent when I lit them anyway. Carefully, I returned the book to its place in the niche above the sleeping platform, beside the picture book that had once belonged to my grandmother. My fingers lingered on its worn cover a moment longer than necessary before I drew my hand away with a soft sigh and turned to begin my day.
It was then I noticed Ember was not on the furs beside me. Panic tightened my chest as I whipped my head around, only to laugh softly with relief when I found her curled between the fire and the cave entrance. I could not help wondering what had possessed her to sleep there. At the sound of my voice, she lifted her head and looked toward me, gave a tremendous yawn, then dropped her head back onto her paws as though I were the one disturbing her. A moment later she rose, stretched herself long and lean, reaching forward with her forelegs before arching her back in a lazy stretch. She shook herself once, glanced back at me, then slunk beneath the cave covering and disappeared into the forest.
I watched the place where she had vanished for a moment, half expecting to see her return, though perhaps I was listening for something else entirely. I quickly turned back to the fire, stirring the sleeping coals and laying fresh wood over them, coaxing the flames back to life until they licked eagerly upward and filled the cave with a soft, growing light. I set the kettle among the coals and warmed the tea left from the night before, then added water to the stew and set that to heat as well.
The familiar routine helped. I concentrated on each small task, on the scrape of the spoon against the pot, the hiss of the damp wood, and the warmth of the fire against my hands. Anything was better than noticing how quiet the cave felt now that Ember had gone. I was determined to have a good day and, more importantly, I was determined not to think of… him.
After my tea and a little stew, I gathered the two unfinished sleeping skins I had been stuffing and stitching together and settled down to work. I trimmed the rough edges, checked the seams I had already made, and worked more stuffing into the places that had flattened. With a bone needle and sinew, I stitched the openings closed, pulling each stitch tight before moving to the next. Over and over I worked, in and out, pulling the sinew tight, smoothing the hide, then beginning another stitch. It gave my hands something to do, which was exactly what I needed, because every so often, without meaning to, I would remember another pair of hands, their weight and warmth, and the way it had felt to have someone close enough that I did not have to listen so carefully to the silence. I pushed the thought away each time and pulled another stitch tight.
By the time I finished, the sewn-together sleeping skins were thick enough to make a far more comfortable bed. I laid them beside the sleeping platform to air near the warmth of the fire and sat back on my heels, looking at them with quiet satisfaction. It was something accomplished, something useful, something that would be of great benefit.
I rose and checked my supplies. The rain would come again, and I did not intend to be caught unprepared. If I heard nothing that sounded like a Kur, I would go out later to check and reset my snares and traps, inspect the places where I had been gathering food, and forage for anything useful before the weather turned. There was plenty to do, and that was good. Before falling asleep the night before, I had decided I would gather what I needed to make tea of my own. How difficult could it be? There were herbs enough in the forest, and if I gathered and dried the last of the berries before they were gone, I could use them to add sweetness.
I found myself smiling faintly at the thought. Tea, berries, snares, firewood—there was comfort in having things to plan for, things that did not require me to wonder whether someone would return or not. I gathered the finished sleeping skins after putting my mending and everything else away, already imagining how much warmer they would make the sleeping platform tonight as I pushed the other furs aside and laid the stuffed skins down. Next, I shook out the covering furs and spread them over my new bedding, trying hard not to wonder what HE would think of it now.
I looked toward the cave entrance, toward the forest where Ember had disappeared, and for just a heartbeat I wondered if he might come through it instead. My chest tightened at the thought, and I quickly looked away. No. I would not spend the day waiting. I would work, I would forage, I would gather what I needed, I would make tea, and I would prepare for the rain. And if, somewhere beneath all of that, a small and traitorous part of me still hoped to hear his footsteps outside the cave, I would simply pretend I had not heard it.
It was a good plan, at least it was a plan, and for now that would have to be enough.
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