The Homecoming

# Chapter 1: The Last Mile

The left boot is the problem.

It has been the problem since somewhere around the wheat districts, which was, I try to count, six days ago. Maybe seven. The heel wore through on the inside edge first, then the outside caught up with a kind of enthusiasm I wish I could apply to other areas of my life, and now there is a flap of leather that catches on every third step and makes a sound like a very small, very disappointed duck.

Bramble's ears rotate toward the sound each time. She has opinions about it. She has not shared them verbally, because she does not share things verbally, but the ears are communicative enough.

"I know," I tell her. "I should have gotten them repaired at Millsreach."

She does not respond. She is in the sling across my chest, the one Cob made — the one Cob stitched from old canvas with the toggle clasp at the shoulder that I have replaced twice and he would probably replace better — and she has her front paws hooked over the edge so she can watch the road. Her head swivels in small, precise arcs. Left. Forward. Left again. The Tidemark scar on her ear catches the light when she turns. It is paler than the surrounding fur, a thin crescent, and I have stopped wondering whether it bothers her because she has never once acted like a creature who can be bothered by old scars.