“Phoebe gestured to that tooled leather collar about her throat, and I noted a small brown pine seed, tight-bound among the everknots. “‘What’s it for?’ I asked. ‘Good fortune?’ “‘Ye wear it into battle. So something might grow from the soil where ye die. Ye ask what kind of childhood I had?’ Phoebe shrugged, meeting my eyes. ‘A short one, Silversaint.’
