A business that worked out of a shabby shack not far from the river’s edge offered guided tours of the Old Fortress, with its highlights being the Governor’s Mansion; the dungeons; the Assembly Dome, where demonstrations showed how the chamber was designed to amplify a speaker’s voice; a blacksmith’s shop said to be similar to the one where Roan of Rhen once toiled; the home of the first empress, Persephone; and across the street, the one-time residence of Tekchin, Moya, and their daughter, Sephryn, the second empress. The tour entered the ancient home of the first empress and second emperor, which was decorated with modern replicas of ancient furniture and utensils, but no one was allowed in the other house. Someone still lived there. The tour guide never said who, but he strongly alluded to the resident’s identity. By then, Farilane had long since decided to honor Sephryn’s desire for privacy.

The sun had set by the time the three of them reached the street at the top of the hill where Farilane’s previous tour had terminated. Shockingly crude and narrow, the thoroughfare was paved in rough stone that made even walking hazardous. Humble did not adequately describe the modest street that, if transplanted to Percepliquis, would fit most appropriately in the lower-dock neighborhood where immigrants to the city lived in discarded shipping crates. The interior of Persephone’s one-time home was dark. The tour had been daylight-only, for no flames were allowed inside the landmark building. Yet, just as Farilane had hoped, there was a light in the building across the street.

“That’s it.” She pointed at the modest house at the end of the simple lane. The two-story, traditional Fhrey-style building was made of dark beams and white daub set over a first-floor base of mortared stone. Its whimsical shutters, ornamented with a column of carved hearts, remained open, and a window box overflowed with yellow and blue flowers. Within the big lower-floor window, they could see the illumination from a flickering hearth fire.

“That’s what?” Sheldon asked, peering forward with his now consistent disapproving squint.

“I think that’s where Sephryn lives.”

“You don’t know?”

“It’s an educated guess.”

All three of them continued to stare at the flickering window as a growing wind raced down the street, dusting up old leaves and playing havoc with the wind chimes that the tour guide had once claimed were a gift to Persephone from Suri.

“Are we going to knock, or just wait to see if she wanders the streets at night?” Sheldon asked, his voice dropping into the range of sarcasm.

“You know,” Farilane said, “I remember you being more respectful when we first met—terrified of me, even.”

“That was before we jumped off a cliff together, broke into a monastery, stole a book, then ran for our lives. After seeing how the sausage is made, I am understandably less impressed.”