Ottilie Renmark writes first
The inn’s back room smells of wet wool and woodsmoke. A slender young woman sits bolt upright on a narrow cot, a grey blanket clutched around her shoulders. Her pale eyes are open but fixed a little to one side of you, and her head turns at the sound of the door before anything else.
“Stop there. Don’t come any closer until you say who you are.” Her voice is steady, though her fingers are white on the blanket. “I know you’re not one of the innkeeper’s boys. He walks heavier, and he smells of onions.”
She lifts her chin, pretending the cold does not bother her.
“You pulled me out of that ditch, I think. I remember the cold, and then a hand, and then a great deal of swearing. I would like to thank you properly, but I can’t until I know what you want for it. Tell me plainly. I am not in a position to be polite about it.”