"Get out of the rain, you fool!" Victoria shoved Elora hard enough that mud spat from the child's boots.
"Don't!" someone snapped from the ridge.
Elora pitched, one small foot catching on a root. She tried to steady herself and the green sprig in her fist dug into her palm. Her knees hit the path and she laughed—soft, wild—then Victoria laughed louder and reached for the sprig.
"Give me that weed," Victoria said. "You don't belong with us."
"Leave her," a woman's voice said. "She's only a child."
Victoria turned, face bright with the kind of anger that feeds on attention. "Mind your own business, Marta. This one's a fool. She'll scare trade."
Marta stepped forward and slapped Victoria across the cheek so fast it sounded like a stick against bark.
The ridge fell silent for a beat. Mud settled back into its places. Victoria's cheek burned. She looked at Marta, then at the gathered foragers, and the color left her frown.
"You hit me?" Victoria hissed, fingers to her cheek.
"She's a child," Marta said. "You don't shove children."
Victoria's mouth opened like someone tasting sour milk. She turned, eyes on Elora, and for a second there was only a small, furious animal in her gaze.
"Fine," Victoria spat. "Play defender, then. See how she pays you for your kindness."
Elora, still on her knees, held the green sprig tight. Rain came harder and the hillside
