"What a beautiful village."
The words left his mouth quietly.
Not sarcastically. Not with the theatrical appreciation of a man performing wonder. With the flat genuineness of someone who has seen a great deal and finds small things occasionally interesting.
The village of Edenveil was empty.
Or appeared empty. Every door was shut; every shutter was latched. The chickens had gone somewhere that chickens go when something in the air tells them to stop being visible. The well rope swayed faintly in a wind that seemed afraid to make too much noise.
Every person in Edenveil had gone inside.
Every person except two.
They stood in the main path between the shuttered buildings—the wide dirt road that served as Edenveil's spine—and they stood with the particular configuration of women who have arranged themselves into a problem on purpose.
The front one was old.
