Stated baldly, it sounded worse than silly. It sounded like a child’s feeble excuse, a cry of “look what you made me do!” when a stack of blocks toppled. I looked down at the edge of his table and wished I hadn’t come and asked my foolish question. “Never mind,” I said quickly, and stood to go. “Sit down.” He didn’t speak the words as a command, but they were stronger than an invitation. His gaze met my eyes squarely. “Any explanation might be better than none, which is what I’ve got right now.

And I’d like to know what you mean when you say the Spindle stopped dancing.”

Slowly I took my seat again. That story was as good a place to begin as any.

“Have you ever seen the Dancing Spindle?”

He shrugged as he took his seat across the table from me. He picked up a rag and started cleaning gun parts. “Twice. It’s impressive, isn’t it?”

“Did you think it moved when you saw it?”

“Oh, yes. Well, no, I mean, I didn’t believe it was moving when I saw it, but it sure looked like it was, from a distance.”

“I got up close to it and it still seemed to me like it was moving. And then some idiot with a knife and a desire to carve his initials on something stopped it.”

I expected him to snort in disbelief, or laugh. Instead he nodded. “Iron.

Cold iron could stop it. But what’s that got to do with my cinch coming undone?”

“I don’t know, exactly. It seemed to me that…well, I guessed that maybe if iron stopped the Spindle, the Plains magic might all go away, too.” He took a little breath of dismay. After a moment, he wet his lips and then asked me carefully, “Nevare. What do you know?”

I sat for a time and didn’t say anything. Then I said, “It started with Dewara.”

He nodded to himself. “I’m not surprised. Go on.” And so, for the first time, I told someone the whole tale of how I’d been captured by the Plains magic, and how it had affected me at the academy, and the plague, and how I thought I had freed myself, and then how the Spindle had swept me up and showed me the power it held before a boy’s mischief and an other self I could not control had stopped the Spindle’s dancing.

Duril was a good listener. He didn’t ask questions, but he grunted in the right places and looked properly impressed when I told him about Epiny’s séance. Most important to me, as I told my story, he never once looked as if he thought I was lying.

He only stopped me once in my telling, and that was when I spoke of the Dust Dance at the Dark Evening carnival. “Your hand lifted and gave the signal? You were the one who told them to start?”

I hung my head in shame, but I didn’t lie. “Yes. I did. Or the Speck part of me did. It’s hard to explain.”