When they caught up to Arlon and Durus, the two were seated together on the driver’s bench, he holding the reins. Durus’s feet, Ralph noticed, poked out from beneath the hem of her long, thick winter dress. Unlike her daughter, she was shod in heavy wool-lined work boots. Arlon wore his usual footwear, suitable to working in the fields.
Before Pran could speak, Durus spotted the pair, and the glare she fixed on Ralph almost made him duck.
‘What are you doing, coming around here? Haven’t you done enough? If you’re looking for Nevana, I don’t know where she is!’
‘More to the point,’ Pran said, his voice quiet, but with enough implicit menace to deflect the woman’s ire, ‘why was your daughter walking alone in the snow with naught on her feet but a pair of light summer shoes?’
‘She’s supposed to be in the wagon,’ the woman said defensively. Ralph knew this to be a lame excuse, but wondered if the woman had even been aware of the fact.
‘With the rest of your possessions,’ Pran added, sarcastically. The way the younger children had made themselves scarce at his presence only seemed to increase his ire.
Arlon, though he looked at nothing during the entire exchange, flinched at this word, knowing full well what Pran meant. Ralph, for some reason, found himself feeling sorry for the man, who dropped his eyes, his expression one of habitual tired guilt.