Twenty:
Zaan Pulfer
I was in the shop when my father came back from seeing the Prince of Wolves. I was using the pestle to grind up ingredients. My father was tall man, with dark hair that was slightly darker than mine, and a beard. He wore a cloak that he took off, and then he put the crossbow in his hands up on a hanger on the wall. “Zaan,” he said.
“Father,” I said, “did you see him?”
“I did,” he nodded.
“Is he---”
“He’s not dead,” said my father, “he was carrying the girl home.”
“Why was he carrying the girl home?” I asked.
“She was sick,” he answered, “she fainted before The Hunt, so he brought her home.”
I frowned. “He brought her home?”
My father nodded. “He
