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Maren's three children slept that night. None of them woke. They didn't wake in the morning. Soule would turn over between them and they would all adjust, finding new places, none of them aware of it. She pushed off the covers in the heat of the day. The cabin was quiet, the camp. A small forager outside skirted the strong smell of ash from the fire pit, finding a corner of biscuit, sitting on its haunches. When the food was gone, the animal sniffed around, finding nothing, and wandered on.
The day passed, quiet in the house, birds loud in the trees. The house and porch were still quiet, the stairs, the river, the pool. A fish swimming downriver slipped into one of Soule's traps and couldn't find a way out. The light died, the stars showing. They slept.
