“What?” This time Kile and Sheldon harmonized, but both failed to notice.

“Never mind,” the princess said. “And yes, I believe they do sell drinks—food, too, if we’re lucky. There’s only so much one can put on a symbol-based placard. If only reading and writing weren’t viewed as witchcraft, we might know for certain.” Farilane put her own sack beneath her feet. The Book of Brin—which hadn’t left her side since she’d received it—stayed on her lap beneath the table. “Can you imagine the improvements? Whole menus might be posted right out front so that we could differentiate this place from that before even entering.”

“And what would the criers do for money?” Sheldon asked. “There are hundreds. Think about how many people would become beggars because of your writing.”

“If I were empress,” Farilane stated, straightening up as if she were giving a speech. “I’d make it mandatory that everyone learn to read and write. Then, instead of screaming in the rain, criers would have careers penning proper announcements that could be posted every morning. Think of the peace and quiet—not to mention the opportunities in the parchment and ink industries.”

“How long before the streets were littered with old parchments?” Sheldon continued in his new role as group pessimist. “What a mess you’d make.”

“Street cleaners would take care of that—one more job made available. See how it works? Lose one miserable drudgery and replace it with a dozen better opportunities.”

A thin boy in an oversized green tunic, which matched the color of the public house drapes, walls, and custom-painted cups, arrived. They had their choice of cold ham or fresh lamb, red wine or yellow ale, and dark or light bread.

“See, another opportunity!” Farilane pointed at the boy as he walked away with their choices. “Imagine if he had a list he could show us and a slate he could use to mark down our requests. Without being forced to remember what we asked for, mistakes would be impossible.”

“No disrespect, Your Highness,” Sheldon said, “but I think you’re insane.”

She frowned and looked to Kile.

The scribe smiled. “He has a point—I mean, you’re not normal.”

The princess smirked. “No . . . I suppose I’m not, am I? It’s just that sometimes I . . . I don’t know. I have flashes of—well, it’s as if I can see how the world could be, how it ought to be, but it’s always this impossible goal, a dream just out of reach. Do you have any idea what I mean?”

“Yes.” Kile nodded. “Yes, I do.”