THE HOLLOW OF the oak tree wasn’t dark enough. Zoia squeezed her head between her knees, letting her wool dress mute the sunlight, the sounds of the forest, and the angry knife of grief that found her heart every time she thought about last night.
Zoia’s mother had taught her how to calm the chaos in her mind. Noises and bright lights overwhelmed her, making it hard to focus or think. It was even more difficult when she was feeling big emotions at the same time. By focusing on the little things in the world around her, she could slow her racing heartbeat and ease the ache in her head. Zoia had done it last night as she’d watched the Scythian slavers drag her brother away. Now, in her oak hollow, she did it again.
One thing you taste . . .
A bit of apple skin from breakfast wedged between her front teeth.
Two things you smell . . .
The earthy musk of the oak. Hearth smoke from the village.
Three things you feel . . .
The brush of wool against her knees. A slight breeze puffing at her hair. Tree bark grating against her
