The habit of tending the earth had not been a skill Sitala had taken up easily. It had been a toil, and remained as such. But she had memories of mother teaching her the names of things; images danced in her mind's eye of Namid quizzing her on the uses of simple weeds; even a weak memory of Eyota as she struggled with the lessons. They would be passed down eternally.

Despite finding some flowers visibly appealing, Sitala had little use for them. She feigned ignorance at the best of times and only added to their supply if absolutely necessary—a habit that would no doubt infuriate Namid, but perhaps this was why it was so difficult to stop.

When she came upon the small garden it was not the plants that intrigued her, but the sight of her darling Memdi. An early night had slipped across the world and Sitala could feel the biting of the air, for it would only grow cooler as time progressed; soon perhaps there would be a fresh snowfall.

Memdi was occupied by something—she looked away just as Sitala came upon her, and so it was up to the mother to call to her, Daughter, softly so as not to spook her.