“There is no other way Ineb.”

The broad-backed one, voice like the oil in the belly of a cold bottle, roiling.

Her brother’s answering silence is fragile. 

His face drawn, eyes full of cracked twigs and broken leaves.  She sees therein a premonition. The ending of sweet things and the burgeoning of bitter. 

Why should she think such a thing?

Her brother’s eyes, fixed helplessly on his tangled fingers, rises to meet hers, where she stands secreted beyond the bowing birches.

He doesn’t appear to see her, but something in his posture prompts the leaner, shorter of the pair to follow his sad gaze into the forest.

“Ah! There the morsel; a cutlet. Ineb, call her out gentle now. You knew the cost! The Morning Crone calls in all at the last!” 

Shadows and Coins...