“Yes. Well, just do not wait too long.”

Chert had his hood up against the cold, so even though she was twice his height he nearly walked into her when she stepped out of the shadows near the Raven’s Gate. Startled, he stopped and looked up, but it took him a moment to recognize her—he had only seen her once, of course, and that had been well over a month ago.

“You’re the one who came to my house,” he said. She still had the same distracted look, like a sleepwalker. “You never told me your name.”

“Willow,” said the young woman. “But it does not matter. That was someone’s name who is gone now, or has changed.” She did not move on. Clearly, she wanted something, but Chert began to feel if he did not ask her she might never disclose it, that they would both remain standing here until night fell and then dawn came again.

“Do you need something?”

She shook her head. “Nothing you can give me.”

Chert’s patience, never his best feature, had been tested beyond belief this year, and it seemed the tests were far from over. “Then perhaps you will excuse me—my wife will be holding supper.”

“I wish to speak to you about the one called Gil,” she said.

Chert suddenly remembered. “Ah, of course. You were very attached to him, weren’t you?” She didn’t speak, but only watched him attentively. “I’m very sorry, but we were both captured by the fairy-soldiers. They let me go, but their queen, or their general, or whatever she was, sentenced Gil to death. He’s dead. I’m sorry I could not do more for him.”

She shook her head. “No. He is not dead.”

He saw the look in her eyes. “Of course. His spirit lives on, no doubt. Now I must go. Again, I’m sorry for how things happened.”

The young woman smiled, an almost ordinary thing, but it still had a quality of ineffable strangeness. “No, he is not dead. I hear his voice. He speaks to Lady Porcupine every day. She hates what he has to say, because he speaks with the king’s voice.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It does not matter. I only wished to tell you that I heard Gil speak of you just yesterday, or perhaps it was today.” She shook her head, as though Chert must know how hard it was to remember when one last heard from dead people. “He said he wished he could tell you and your people that they are not safe beneath the castle. That soon the world will change, and that the door will open under Funderling Town and dead time will escape.” She nodded as though she had performed some small trick with an acceptable level of skill. “I am going now.”

She turned and walked away.

Chert stood in the lengthening shadows, feeling a chill crawl across his body that was out of all proportions even to the cold day.