It started to rain. Rownie tightened his coat and breathed in rain smells of dusty mud and wet stone. He tried to clear his head. He was still tired and still alone. It was worse than how he felt on days when Graba moved her shack without warning anyone first or telling them where she intended to go. Rownie knew where the shack was this time, but he couldn’t go back there. It was no longer home.

He missed Rowan. But he didn’t know where Rowan might be, and he didn’t know where to start looking.

The heavy rain faded to a drizzle. Each misty droplet seemed to hang perfectly still, as though someone had shouted “Stop!” at the rain, and the rain had listened. Rownie moved through the hovering drops.

He decided to start with the alehouse in Broken Wall, where he had last seen his brother, to find out if anyone there knew anything at all. This was what you were supposed to do when you lost something—go to the last place you remembered seeing it, even if it had been a couple of months ago. He also had another reason to find the alehouse. We play at the Broken Wall tomorrow, the old goblin had said. She had offered him welcome. Rownie could be a part of the goblin troupe. He could be a giant again. He could help them put on plays. Or he could slave away for thousands of years in goblinish underground cities, if that’s what they really wanted him for.

Broken Wall was the name of the alehouse, and also the name of the neighborhood. It was a part of Southside where most of the buildings had been pieced together with stone from the old city wall—or else carved into the larger, solid blocks of the old city wall. It was a long walk to get there, and it took Rownie most of the day. He didn’t hurry. He didn’t run. His legs were still sore, and he had only scrounged up a single apple. Hunger was still there, buzzing in the middle of him.

When he got to the alehouse, he found goblins in the outside yard. Thomas stood on the roof of their wagon. He was shouting and waving his big black hat.

“I will write you into our next play!” Thomas roared. “I will sculpt your face into grotesque caricatures and paste them onto small, ugly puppets!” The alehouse windows and doors were all shut. No one seemed to be listening to the old goblin, but he continued to roar invective at the walls. “I’ll pen your name into immortal verse, and for a thousand years it will be synonymous with ridicule and scorn!”