Gale lets out a snort. Hazelle Hawthorne had said much the same before, back when his father had been boasting of his eldest son’s skill with the bow. He isn’t the greatest, of course, but it’s fair to say he qualifies as above average.

“Okay, first of all,” he begins, giving her a flat look, “don’t squint when you aim, and keep both eyes open. You’ve got two; it won’t hurt to use them. Second of all…” Gale looks at Elizabeth critically, eyeing her stance, body structure, and the bow in her hands. “My bow might be too much for you. You should start smaller.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “And maybe a little closer to the target.”