The woman took note of Kile’s stick. “Are these your guards? We had guards—at the workhouse. They beat us. They beat Danna to death. She had black hair and brown eyes, like them. I didn’t care about Danna. She was mean. But then they whipped Aldaria. Beat her in front of me. She had green eyes—green eyes, and gold hair . . . like you. I loved Aldaria. That’s why they beat her. Wanted to break me. I didn’t break.” The strange woman, who was behind Farilane by then, stopped circling, leaned in close, and whispered, “I exploded.”

The woman’s tone had gained a crisp aspect, an icy edge, and Farilane quickly said, “These are not guards. They are my friends.”

“Friends?” she said, as if she didn’t understand the word, and her gaze once more moved to the others—no, to Kile.

“What do you mean by exploded?”

“The workhouse. The guards. All the other children—including Aldaria—were gone. They sent soldiers after that. They’re gone, too. Not entirely my fault. I was very angry, mad at the workhouse, at the guards, the soldiers, my grandparents. But more than anything, I was furious with myself. They hadn’t killed Aldaria. I did that. Didn’t mean to. Just happened.” She began to circle Kile. “Are these men soldiers?”

“No, not soldiers,” Farilane said, not liking the way the woman’s attention had turned so fixedly on Kile. He became her new obsession. She circled him instead.

“I don’t like soldiers,” the woman said, staring at Kile.

“They aren’t soldiers. This is Kile.”

“Kile? What is Kile?”

“He’s a scribe. He writes things. Do you know what writing is?”

She glanced at Farilane, an annoyed look. “Not what he does. What he is?”

This made the princess pause for a moment, wondering if she was missing something in the conversation. The woman was odd, but having mastered language, she should be cognizant of the concept of races. “He’s a man.”

The redhead took a step closer to Kile, and as she had done to Farilane, she peered deeply at him. After reaching some judgment, she shook her head. “No, he’s not.”

“He’s not?”

The redhead shifted her focus to Sheldon. “And this one is hiding. Why is he hiding?” Her tone once more turned sharp.

An overpowering sense of danger emanated from the lady in green, as if she held an invisible bow outstretched and nocked with an ugly arrow that she pointed at one then the other. The tension of that quivering string vibrated the air. The green-gowned lady had issues with men, and the more she focused on them, the greater the tension became. “I’m Farilane, of the Imperial House of Nyphron, Princess of the Empire, and we are a bit lost. Do you know which way lies Dibben Monastery?”