The small solar was dark except for the low, dull orange pulse of the dying birch logs in the hearth. The heavy stone walls kept the howling winter wind down to a faint, distant vibration, leaving the room so quiet that the only sound was the dry, uneven scrape of Iris’s breathing.

She was lying on her side on the low sheepskin cot, her knees pulled up toward her chest. Her skin looked sickly pale in the firelight, her face damp with a cold sweat that made her hair stick to her temples in dark, messy strands.

Nila sat on a wooden stool by the hearth, a small clay bowl...