Something changed after that, and neither of them said a word about it, and they were both extremely careful, and it went on changing anyway.
She stopped sleeping behind the door. She dragged the cloak out and slept on the hearth, and he said nothing about it. He started talking. Not much, and not about anything that mattered — about the river, about a bird that came to the dead tree, about how the road used to run on the other side of the valley before it moved. Isabelle learned that he had opinions about horses and no opinions about anything else, and that he could not sing, and that he thought the pears had been a trap.