Fig heard the caravan before she saw it. Voices calling out to each other, the harrumph of hoofed animals, the clank of metal on metal, the thud of metal on wood. When she, Wren, and Altair emerged from the forest she saw a mix of people bustling around wagons like a miniature town. Some of the wagons were new — pale and clean — but most were older: rusted at the joints, splattered with mud, patched with fabric of various weaves. Many had some sort of covering, though their construction varied greatly — arches of canvas, boxy squares draped in loose fabric, spare cotton hitched like a tent. Though she’d never had use for one, Fig understood wagons as an uncommon method to transport people along with their belongings. They were heavy, unwieldy. If the travelers who made it to the town near her home began their trip with one, it rarely survived to the end.