“Sioni, you always did look just like your mother!” the woman murmured, her voice warm and sweet. “Dear, you look a mess to me. Where have you been, in the woods?” Sioni vaguely remembered her, from a time before the tower, when scrapes and cuts had brought her to this very cottage. “There we are.” she leaned back from Sioni’s arm, newly bandaged and feeling much better.

“Thank you.” Sioni managed, wishing, hoping for an explanation. Her head was swimming, her eyes foggy.

“My name is Ridda.” The woman said, fixing a pallet for Sioni on the floor, “I was friends with your mother when we were girls.” She seemed to sense Sioni’s confusion, and stopped arranging linens to take her into her strong arms. “Sioni, Sioni, always the questioning one, what is it, dear?”

Sioni found herself telling Ridda the story, her misty memories of the town, the old woman, Malvolia and Alfred. Ridda nodded sagely, and her eyes widened. At the end of the tale, Sioni was sobbing quietly, more confused.

“Arelia.” Ridda frowned.