Corvi huffed to herself. Yes, perhaps he was right to be afraid of what she might do. Though the words were spoken in jest, they tugged at something lodged in her chest. She stopped eating, then, to look at him more closely. (There was little left of the bird by this point, anyways.)

You win that one, Corvi said with a frown. It wasn’t as if she could deny otherwise. I am a stranger to this land. I take it that you aren’t. Meanwhile, she had just finished devouring what could well be a chicken he’d staked claim on. No, these birds were too thin and stringy to belong to anyone; the crumbling walls of the coop were barely standing. No one had cared for them—or this place—in a long time. Licking the drying blood from her muzzle, she stood and carefully gathered the remains of the bird to bury in the snow just outside. A gift for the house-spirit of this farm. If carrying a pipe was sentiment, let this be sentiment too.

I will catch you a hen if you tell me about this place, she told the stranger when she returned. Already, she cast her gaze beyond him to the snows outside. The hens would’ve taken shelter in the brush overtaking the nearby orchard. First, though, she waited to see if he’d agree to this deal.