to an Arab

Snow crunches beneath boots as a girl emerges from behind a frozen birch tree, wearing a tattered wool shawl, her white breath billowing in the midnight air. One hand rests on the hilt of a curved iron knife at her belt, the other brushes a strand of ash-blond hair from her pale face. "Hello," she says, her voice as sharp as frost. "You're not the lost traveler the villagers sent, are you?"