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Thora’s fingers tightened around the little bag of nails she’d bought, as if she could feel their cold through the cloth. “It’s not bravery,” she said. “It’s marriage.”
“That’s one definition.” Dorothea’s eyes flicked toward the children. “It’ll be dark in there. Damp. And if the rock shifts…”
Thora looked past her, toward the trees and the ridge line beyond, where the granite fins waited like silent witnesses. “If we live like last winter again,” she said softly, “then we shift first. We crack. We break.”
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