Yes, there was reason enough for a child to look at him with fear, and perhaps it really was afraid. But this was probably nothing but an act. It had decided that terror was more likely to win him around. It would have chosen a suitable Face from its supply, like a card from a deck. In Caverna lies were an art, and everybody was an artist, even young children.

I wonder which Face it will be, Grandible thought, reaching for a bucket of water. No. 29—Uncomprehending Fawn Before Hound? No. 64—Violet Trembling in Sudden Shower?

“Let’s see you, then,” he muttered, and before the curled figure could react he had thrown the water across its face to wash away the worst of the curds. Long, braided hair showed through the ooze. A girl, then? She made a panicky attempt to bite him, showing a full set of milk teeth with no gaps. Younger than he had thought at first, then. Five years old at the most, but tall for her age.

While she sneezed, spluttered, and coughed, he grabbed her small chin and with a heavy rind-brush began clearing the rest of the clogging Neverfell curds from her features. Then he snatched up a trap-lantern and held it close to the small face.

However, it was Grandible, not the child, who gave a noise of fear when at last he saw the countenance of his captive. He released her chin abruptly, and recoiled until his back halted with a clunk against the vat from which he had saved her. The hand holding up his trap-lantern shook violently, causing the little glowing flytrap within the lamp to snap its fine teeth fretfully. There was silence, but for the tallowy drip of curds from the child’s long, clogged braids, and her muted snuffles.

He had forgotten how to look surprised. He was out of practice in changing his expression. But he could still feel that emotion, he discovered. Surprise, incredulity, a sort of horrified fascination . . . and then the heavy onslaught of pity.

“Thunder above,” he muttered under his breath. For a moment more he could only stare at the face his brush had revealed, then he cleared his throat and tried to speak gently, or at least softly. “What is your name?”

The child sucked her fingers warily and said nothing.

“Where is your family? Father? Mother?”

His words had as much effect as coins dropped in mud. She stared and stared and shivered and stared.

“Where did you come from?”

Only when he had asked her a hundred such questions did she offer a whispered, hesitant response that was almost a sob.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

And that was the only answer he could get from her. How did you get in? Who sent you? Who do you belong to?

I don’t know.

He believed her.