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death out here in the nutwood.
    Widow Ama had lived out here for three years, Dara remembered, as she neared the remote little cot.  It was dark and empty, of course – Ama had been burned weeks ago, in a quiet little ceremony.  She had been one of the Vale folk who had married into the Westwood, and for forty years, Aunt Anira had told her, Ama had been one of the hardest-working women in the manor.  While her husband ranged and toiled in the tanning sheds, she had been a stalwart of the manor hamlet, raising four children to adulthood in the process.
    When her aging husband did not return from a hunting expedition deep in the mountains, she had taken to grief.  A few months later she had offered to move out of the large home she’d raised her family in and go live in serenity amongst the pensioners.  The Master of the Wood had agreed, and she’d spent the last few years of her life in this tiny home.
    Her grown children had already removed her personal affects, those small things of sentimental value, but few Westwoodmen accumulated anything akin to the Vale folk’s ideas of wealth.  Unlike the agrarian manors in Sevendor, in the Westwood folk contributed their work to the Hall, and the Hall supported them from birth to death.  The wealth the community created, such as it was, got invested back into the welfare of the entire estate.  Her father may have been Master of the Hall, but apart from that he lived as much like the common folk of the Westwood as anyone.  He’d even ceded the large bedchamber he’d shared with his wife to his brother, when becoming a widower made it feel too large and empty.  No one had much in the way of personal wealth in the Westwood.
    As a result, although the Westwoodmen were poor, by outside standards, their standards of living were much higher.  The Westwoodmen never went hungry, with the wealth of the forest to feed them.  They never were cold, with the Flame to warm them and the Wood to feed it.  Their purses might be empty, but their bellies were full and they slept safely at night, without fear from their neighbors.  That was security few in Sevendor could boast.
    What was left of Widow Ama’s cottage needed to be cleaned and cleared, and made ready for the next tenant.  She could think of no one in the manor who might be considering such a move, off the top of her head, but Anira was not the sort to let the place sit abandoned.  
    The narrow door to the tiny cottage was propped shut with a rock to keep the forest creatures out – raccoons and racquiels would delight in finding no one at home.  Two old clay pots, their usefulness for other purposes doomed by cracks or holes in them, contained flowers now dead in the cool autumn.  
    Dara pushed aside the rock and opened the creaking door.  The mustiness of the room, tinged with the lingering scent of death, nearly overwhelmed her, but once the cottage aired out it wasn’t so bad.  She opened the shutters to both tiny windows to help that process.  That also allowed enough light inside the dark little room to see the extent of the task before her.  
    It was bad . . . but not nearly as bad as it could have been.  The few belongings left behind by the widow’s family had been carelessly left scattered across the room, much of it piled on the table in no particular fashion.  The fireplace was bursting with ashes, and the hard dirt floor of the house was littered with debris.  Widow Ama had not been a fussy housekeeper in the last few years, Dara noted.
    She began by cleaning the ashes from the fireplace – a task every Westwood child knew by heart – and kindling a small fire.  The chimney needed to be cleaned, she noted, but it was clear enough for the moment.  Once she’d laid the fire and added tinder, it only took a few seconds to strike it into life with the flint and striker left behind.
    Soon the tiny little flame was crackling and dancing, adding just enough heat to the air to burn away the chill