A wagon came into view ahead, stopped atop a gentle rise. Beyond them were wisps of white, rising from the earth, and the scent of smoke in the air. “Campfires?” I asked, sitting straighter. Zavier nodded. Was this how it would always be? Nods and short replies. He hadn’t exactly been chatting on the Cutter, but since we’d reached Turah, he’d hardly spoken a word. At this rate, it might take me a decade to get to know my husband.
