“Whoa, whoa,” Shyan says. “You don’t wanna be doing that.”
“Who’s there?” Fassn asks from the back.
“Won’t you share what you have?” the hungry woman asks, working the bonnet in her anxious hands. “We don’t eat much.”
“We don’t have anything,” Shyan barks back. She winces with guilt.
The man sniffs the air. “Maybe my olfactories are gettin’ up in years, but smells like ye do.” A glint of steel peeks out where his hand meets his belt.
Abia turns to the poor people, then to Shyan. “Maybe share?”
Shyan sighs. Her own stomach grumbles. “Okay,” she says. “If you can make it to town with us, we’ll share what we have.”
Cang’s muffled voice comes from within the wagon. “Share? I am becoming rather exhausted back here.”
“You can share what we have,” Shyan repeats. “If you help with the stirring.”