The donations started arriving at dawn.
Marron woke to the sound of something being set down outside the guest hut—a soft thump, followed by retreating footsteps. Then another thump an hour later. Then another.
By the time she and Mokko emerged fully dressed, there was a small pile of goods stacked neatly by their door: a sack of flour, three jars of preserved fruit, a wheel of hard cheese wrapped in cloth, dried herbs bundled with twine, and a clay pot of what smelled like honey.
A note was tucked under the cheese, written in careful script:
Thank you for keeping the children occupied yesterday. We finished the south field fence in record time. Please accept these with our gratitude. —The Village
Marron stood staring at the pile, something warm and complicated rising in her chest.
"That's a lot of food," Mokko said, crouching to examine the jars. "This is good preserved fruit. Not the cheap stuff."
"They gave us their winter stores," Marron murmured.
