The blood has seeped into the ground, taken hold like the knife took hold of the his throat. It is with a knife of her own that Roesia carves it up, as delicate and careful as a surgeon, and transfers the bloody dirt into her leather pouches.

The man was not the first Profane killed who spoke of love. He will not be the last.

It is too obvious, though, to take only the bloodied earth. Clean earth is further scattered and furrowed, her footsteps and the fabric of her skirts helping to blend it all together. If she notices the eyes in the dark watching her, she does not stop.