The swim back to the Forest is long – far longer than she remembers – and when she reaches the border of Vercingetorix’s land Therese can do nothing but drop to her knees under the sweeping embrace of an evergreen, its branches dipping under the weight of winter and yet somehow providing warmth from the dark soil underneath. She can still taste salt on her lips, and its strong overwhelming smell does a good job of masking Garrick, but even without the constant smell of him clinging to her skin she can still remember the pressure on her sides, on her back.

The fear is gone. Her swim back to Luthien has not only made her skin numb, and Therese is too tired, too exhausted to be afraid anymore. Too frozen to be angry.

She should find Vercingetorix, find the rest of the herd and collapse under their watchful embrace, seek out their warmth and support (until she remembers that his herd is not her herd, not yet, they are a sea of self-concerned strangers – not her mother). Her body shudders, and Therese draws her legs into her belly, rolling onto her side and resting her head against the ground, her breaths shallow and ragged but easing, the rise and fall of her muddy, bloody sides slowly returning to a steady rhythm.

She isn’t even aware that she is asleep, not until it stops being cold.