They went to the Barlan with me in tow. They played a set of traditionals, none of which I was familiar with—most were Lothic and dated back to the war in the South. Both Prynn and Sorcha played violin; Tayvi sang. They were extraordinary. Even I, with little exposure to music, could tell they were extraordinary. It was very early, but the Barlan was packed. When Tayvi bowed after the last song, the crowd surged forward, bearing me along with it, and coins poured forth from their pockets. Sorcha pulled me on stage. He sat me next to Prynn, who thanked everyone who gave them money. He was warm with his audience, easy with them, an altogether different sort than the cantankerous old man who’d glowered at me at his building. Prynn seemed profoundly uninterested in me. I was glad for it.

Sorcha pulled Tayvi off to the side. They had a whispered conversation I couldn’t hear, but the talents are what they are, and I saw more than I should have. There was no amount of gentleness that would have adequately softened the blow he delivered to Tayvi. The loss, the bitterness, was palpable. I knew with some odd certainty—a certainty, which may not have been magical—that it had something to do with Dirva. I knew it, and the curiosity burned me alive, but I could not bring myself to ask Sorcha about it. We went directly back to the squat house after his set. We walked slow, and he told me about how he’d started playing the violin. How Prynn had taught it to him since he was young, how Prynn was from the Lothic coast and had trained formally with human musicians, but then turned rebel and fought in the war. He told me about a man named Ezra who’d been married to Prynn, who’d died a violent and pointless death, and who had a place in satyrs’ songs. Sorcha spoke in an unbroken monologue, and at most a quarter of what he said made any kind of sense to me. I didn’t try very hard to make sense of it. I didn’t even listen very closely. This happens sometimes, even now, even after years of marshaling my gifts. There are times when someone speaks to me at length and I listen to the tenor of their voice, the cadence of their words rather than the content. It gives a window into their frame of mind, but it has also given me a reputation for a wandering attention.

Back at the squat house, Sorcha handed me a plum and asked me if I was properly awake yet. I said I wasn’t. He grinned. “Yeah, me either. I’m gonna crash for an hour or two. You’re lucky I’m a heavy sleeper. You’re lucky I don’t kick you out of my room for the snoring.”