“Maybe,” she conceded and turned to follow Rapskal as he explored. He came to a tall door. It was wood, but it had been decorated with panels of metal with shapes beaten into it. Perhaps that was why it had survived. He opened it and wondered aloud, “Where does this go?”

Thymara followed him as he entered a wide corridor. More doors, similar to the one he had just opened, lined the walls. “Are they locked?” Rapskal wondered and pushed on one. It swung open silently and he hesitated on the threshold.

“What’s in there?” she asked, hurrying to join him.

“Someone’s room,” he said, but still he did not enter.

Thymara stood on tiptoe to peer over his shoulder. Someone’s room indeed. So many of the houses she had seen were empty, as if the inhabitants had packed and left, while others held only splinters and shards of furniture. This was different. There was a desk and a chair, of dark wood, but coated with something very shiny and inset with colors. She had once seen a very small and expensive box from Trehaug that was finished like that. A tall shelf in the corner matched the desk, and on the shelves there were containers of glass and pottery, most of them blue but a few orange and silver ones for contrast.

“Look. A bed made of stone. Who would want a bed made of stone?” Rapskal walked boldly into the room, and Thymara followed shyly. She felt like an intruder here, as if the narrow door in the opposite wall might open at any time and the room’s inhabitant emerge to demand what they were doing here. She moved to the shelf and found a comb and a brush, seemingly made of glass. The bristles of the brush were stiff when she poked at them.

“I’m taking this!” she heard herself say and was shocked at the greed in her voice. But she had not had a proper hairbrush since hers had been lost months ago. A flat object on the desk looked rather like a book, but when she opened it, it unfolded into three hinged mirror panels. She looked at herself and then could not look away. Was that her? Had Sintara changed her so much?

Gone was the girl who had been “marked by the Rain Wilds.” An Elderling, narrow of face, her features traced in fine blue scales, looked out at her. Her wet hair, sleek and black, revealed fine blue scaling in the parting. She lifted her hand to touch her face, to prove the reflection was her own, and was struck by the deep cobalt of her claws and the tracery of silver, like a vine, that now ran from each fingertip up the back of her hands to her elbows. She was sure it had not been there before the bath.