The house looked smaller once Isole reached it.
It had been built from the same curved courses of stone as the settlement, though with less care for appearance. One window stood open to the crooked light. The other had been shuttered against it.
A narrow garden ran along the side of the house. Herbs Isole did not recognize grew in straight, careful rows, their soil recently turned. Whoever lived here still watered them, pulled weeds, and cared whether anything survived long enough to be useful.
Isole stood outside for nearly a minute.
She repeated the phrases she had prepared on the walk over. Each had sounded reasonable while the door was still distant.
Now, with the house in front of her, none seemed large enough to carry what she meant.
She approached anyway.
Then knocked.
That much required no shared language.
Kest opened the door herself.
For a moment, Isole barely recognized her.
