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feathers came winging through the air, and a young raven, a fledgling, landed clumsily beside her. It pleaded for food. The fledgling’s beak hung open, flashing the bright-pink interior of its gullet. It made the loud bawling sounds that young—and sometimes not so young—ravens used while begging.
    Moved to action by this display, Raven began working her throat to bring up food, and she put her beak into the fledgling’s open pinkness. But then she realized her throat pouch was empty. There was no feeling of fullness, no rounded swelling—only empty flatness. She pulled her beak away from the young bird and flew away, searching for food.
    Raven awoke early and found herself alone in the lean-to, the camp quiet. She turned over, and a gust of her body’s scent marked with Bear’s muskiness wafted past her face, the odor overpowering the fur smell. At some time during the day, a bath in the lake would be necessary.
    After slipping on her clothes, making her braid, and dabbing ochre on her forehead and chin, she peeked around the lean-to’s flap at the main tent. Her stomach fluttered with the prospect of facing Willow. She didn’t know how her sister would react to the night’s unexpected happenings.
    No one was about, and she couldn’t hide all day, so Raven went out to the smoldering hearth and started grinding herbs with the small mortar and pestle she always carried in her pouch. She ground willow bark for pain and swelling. On reflection, she also ground valerian root for sleep, to be used later in the day. The Longhead should move his arm and shoulder right after the joint was reset, but he would soon need deep, healing sleep. She scooped water from a nearby water vat into a small gourd. Her hand funneled a handful of ground willow bark into the gourd. Using a twig, she stirred the potion.
    Raven was searching the hearth’s embers for a small stone to heat the mixture when she heard Bear’s voice behind her—gruff and terse, nothing like the night before. She straightened and faced him.
    “I want to make something clear,” he was saying. “Neither I nor anyone else will hold you in high regard because, out of pity, I joined you in those pelts. You are likely barren, and nothing will come of it.” His eyes were pointed icicles. “I have a question for you. And I want the truth. Are you a spirit seeker as well as a healer? Many of you are both.”
    “I do my best to heal people. That’s what I do. Isn’t that what Willow told you?”
    Bear looked at her strangely. “I want you to remember this, healer. If you cause any problems, I will cast you out onto the steppe or—” He kicked her pouch lying on the ground. “Or I’ll feed you all your medicines.”
    Raven considered his sullen face, wondering if he somehow knew about Fern. Regardless, he was an overly volatile man. Her fingers shook as she stirred the willow brew. Leaf was right—it was best not to make him mad.
    “As for the Longhead, I’ll put his arm bone back into his shoulder,” Bear said. “It isn’t fitting that you do it.”
    “Fine,” she replied, weary of his crossness. “But I need to give him this brew. It will deaden some of the pain.”
    He paused, frowning and doubtful.
    She hurriedly added, “It will help make him more docile. More like a—a newborn aurochs, like a calf.”
    To her surprise, his mouth twitched into a slanted grin. The idea of the Longhead behaving like a calf must have pleased him. He waved at the gourd. “Finish with your medicine. Let’s get this over with before we end night fast.”
    Leaf was already at the pen when they arrived. Raven wondered how long he’d been staring at the skin-covered form on the ground. The skins were completely still and didn’t move even when Raven cleared her throat. The captive, it seemed, was dead. But when Leaf shouted, he stirred and arose, throwing off the skins. Air rushed out of Raven’s lungs—she’d been holding her breath.
    The night before, they’d