She moved back quickly, suddenly uncertain who it was. “Pogue?” she asked softly.

“Aislinne?” a voice whispered.

“Brickey!”

She felt a surge of relief. He had departed several days ago for Hold-Fast-Crossing, not long after her encounter with the ragpicker, to find out what had become of Hadrian Esselline, and many were the times since—especially after they had locked her away in this storeroom—that she had wished she had never let him go.

The little man stepped quickly through the door and closed it behind him. He was dust-covered and his black hair was sticking up like the quills on a porcupine. “Shhh, softly now. I gave the guard something to make him fall asleep, but he might have friends nearby. Are you all right?”

“Now that you’re here, I am. When did you get back?”

“Not more than two hours ago. Soon enough to see the villagers charging about like headless chickens and to hear of the madness that’s taken hold. What are they thinking, shutting you away like this, blaming you for the Troll’s escape?”

She shook her head. “If I knew, I would tell you. I was asleep in my bed one minute and thrown into this room and charged with all sorts of things the next. I only just last night met with Pogue. He waited until then to come to me, telling me I had betrayed him. But he’s not himself. Wasn’t until we talked, anyway. He might be more so now. He’s promised to see to it that I have a chance to face my accusers.”

“I wouldn’t count on that happening, Aislinne.” The little man glanced back at the door as if expecting someone. “Things have gotten much worse since you spoke with him. Bad enough that I decided right away I had to get you out of here.”

“But I have to give Pogue a chance to see if—”

“Pogue Kray’s chances are all used up. He lies dead in the village square, his bones broken by something that looks like the Seraphic but very likely isn’t.”

“Skeal Eile killed him?”

“A Skeal Eile made over or just a creature that looks like Skeal Eile. I saw him pick up your husband as if he were made of straw and throw him twenty feet through the air into the trunk of a tree. The Seraphic might have use of some small magic, but nothing this powerful.”

“Who, then?”

“The ragpicker, I would guess.”

“That old man?”