Zarmine looked more like the villagers than anything, especially as they passed under the sheltering walnuts, where the smell of nutmeg and vanilla was particularly strong. Her loose, cotton clothing was faded, but not threadbare, and there was a good deal of red and yellow in the woven fabric, as well as on the embroidery that laced through the hems and down the chest of her bodice. She walked with the sturdy gait of a mountain-born soul, her feet clad in sturdy boots.

As she walked, she reached up to tug his left hoop earring, a habit that meant he was deep in thought; it had annoyed her sister immensely when she was younger. Zarmine glanced around the village, her gaze taking in the stone houses under the low branches of the walnuts. This was a place of hard lives and harsh winters, where the air chilled early with the scent of sage and sweetscented bedstraw, and a sharp breeze from the mountain peaks carried snow on its breath.