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There was a stillness in her son, even as he moved, that reminded Aurèle of his father. She had never explained that to him, and never would. Anatole had not needed to know about such things. He was better off the way he was. Though she did not know it, the boy’s father had done a great many terrible things in his time on earth. One day, perhaps, she would find this out. In her heart she knew—the dream that had brought her the crow told her so.
At the man’s comment, Aurèle smiled in a way that did not meet her eyes. She found scavenging for human things stupid. The only things humans had ever made for her use was fire-water, which numbed her thoughts and made her forget. She did not touch the stuff anymore. The night with the green eyed stranger had taught her that lesson, though she reasoned it back to her children. She was a perfect mother, in her opinion. Far better than her sister, who had produced weakness. “There’s no need for it,” she explained, her accent voice rising in the night air. “We’re going to follow the road out and then back, if you would like to join us. Best to know the areas around your home, after all,” she added, looking briefly to Anatole. He snorted air out of his nose, frustrated by the idea of a tag-along.