“Dead trees. One of the other slaves, Gjalda, he knows what you can and cannot take. Speak with him on your time, not my own.” A flip of the hair suggested that she would not expect any less. As his tasks were ended, his time for other things—like the vitals of hunting, sleeping, and such—could be dealt with. A black shoulder rolled under the raven winged cloak, ruffling the feathers. She looked often like a great bird of prey, with the glossy black so close to her own hair and, if not for the unnatural shade of the leather, dark. Unlike the white woman Wisteria, Siv’s allegiance to the night was clear.
At the question Siv’s head turned sharply, eyes narrowed. Her muzzle crinkled but she did not show her teeth. “If you mean,” she warned him quietly. “, in the ways of men, you should pray to whatever gods you serve that it was I and not another that found her. As long as she belongs to me, no man will touch her.” Siv had no sons and never would; her magic would not allow it even if her daughter implored her constantly. “She will learn how to clean and how to serve. If I see reason to use her beyond that,” the witch dangled this with a soft smile, but there was steel under the black velvet mouth. “, and if you give me reason, then perhaps.”
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