“I know,” Rivasoa said, warmly. Orfeus hadn’t expected her to be so approving of anything as social and chaotic and loud as wayhouses. Perhaps the spirit of hospitality that shone out of them warmed her soul, or perhaps she’d been more thrown off by the quick flight than Orfeus knew.

A glance around the town before they entered showed squared-off buildings similar to Tinctora’s. The gardens looked tidier, and the rowan tree grew from a circle of tall grasses in the centre area, near the Hub with its gleaming fins and busy activity around it. No wolves lunged out from the dark. Orfeus told herself that Faol would have no way of knowing she was here this quickly.

The wayhouse operator was as friendly and hospitable as they always were. Rivasoa, in contrast to her demeanour up in Farflung, was utterly polite. They settled at a table to await their basic meal.

Rivasoa wrote in her book a while, stylus moving over the pages. Orfeus set her herbs on the table, rearranged them to make up for the stock she’d traded and then repacked them into her bag more efficiently. Rivasoa put her book away and said, “You talk to your guitar.”

Orfeus stowed her bag under the table, straightened. “Artists are eccentric,” she said. Possibly she leaned too heavily on that. “Yes, I suppose. You must bear in mind that I’ll talk to most anything. I’ll talk to a tree if there’s no proper company around. I’ll talk to you.”

Rivasoa’s face showed no sign of insult. “I am just curious,” she said.

Of course she was. Curiosity seemed Rivasoa’s defining trait, rather to the exclusion of all else. Orfeus should approve of her, but something about the woman just grated her wrong. Maybe it was the pinprick that she imagined she could feel in the crook of her arm, where her blood had been stolen as she slept.

Their food arrived, bowls of rice and beans and a pitcher of water. Orfeus poured them each a glass and took a sip. Ooh, there was a hint of lemon to it. “My guitar’s name is Galahad,” she said, resignedly. Rivasoa looked at her. “Galahad? The ancient Alban knight. She fell in love with Lancelot, but Lancelot had two loves already. So she wandered, singing of her heartbreak, and all who heard her were so moved by her song that they could not help but rally behind Arthur.”

Even just saying the rhythms of the old story set Orfeus at ease. She almost didn’t feel the need to turn her head over her shoulder and scan the room for any hulking Wolf-like figures, though she still did.

Rivasoa smirked a bit. “That’s not right.”