The World Tree door opened and Viktor stepped out into the afternoon.
He stretched.
Both arms overhead, fingers laced, the full extension of a spine that had been doing rather a lot of things in rather concentrated sequence since early morning. His joints popped in three places. He rolled his neck, felt the second set pop, and exhaled with the specific satisfaction of a body completing an inventory and finding everything accounted for.
The garden was quiet.
The afternoon light had moved west, long and amber now, casting the kind of shadows that meant the day was serious about ending. The flower beds along the wall were doing what they always did in the vitality field of the World Tree — growing with an enthusiasm that bordered on aggressive, the roses Helena had planted in spring already at second-bloom despite the season having no opinion on the matter.
Something bounced against his shin.
Viktor looked down.
Rusty.
