Mara Venn swept the last drift from the stone shelter at first light. The roof held off the worst of the snow, and the open front faced south, the way her grandmother taught her to set a meeting place for people who needed sun on their faces. She had picked it for the borrower and the lender both. Eleven years of silence between them, and today she meant to end it. If she could, the elders would have to name her the peak's only sanctioned matchmaker. One of them had laughed in her face when she said the names out loud. Soot crouched beside her on the flat roof, hook-shaped ears twitching at every gust. Mara talked to the lynx the way other people talked to themselves. "He'll come up the south trail by noon," she said. "She'll come from the village. We sit them down. We pour the tea. We let him say the thing he should have said eleven years ago." The wind shifted before she finished the sentence. By the time she reached the lender's door in the village, snow was falling sideways. The lender opened the door already dressed for the climb, money pouch on her belt, mouth set hard. She had agreed to come because Mara told her the borrower had carried his shame for eleven years. She had not agreed to wait. A boy ran up the lane with news from the watchman: the pass on the far slope was sealed. Mara climbed the ridge to see it herself. Where the trail should have cut between two shoulders of rock, there was now a wall of jagged stone crusted thick with snow and ice, taller than a man, packed solid by the storm. The borrower was on the other side. No one would cross until the thaw. The lender came up behind her, looked once, and turned back down the slope. "I waited eleven years," she said. "I won't wait through a thaw." Mara followed her down and tried every argument she had. The lender would not hear them. By dusk she had told the baker, the watchman, and two of the elders that the meeting was finished and the debt would be called in writing the moment the post rider could carry a letter down the mountain. The elder who had laughed at Mara stopped her in the lane and said the match was dead, and now she would owe him the honor of admitting it. Mara walked home through the dark with Soot at her heel. The shelter she had cleaned that morning stood empty under fresh snow. She sat by the fire and spoke to the lynx. "She'll send the letter at first light," she said. "So I have until first light to give her a reason to tear it up."