The interior of the pavilion was dark and dank. Even chilly, come to that. Eight or ten heavy stone caskets with perforated lids slowly exhaled sheets of moisture that hung, nearly visible, in the air. Ice, thought Sister Doctor. They’ve carried ice down from the higher Kells, where it lasts all year long. And the cold serves to tamp down the smell of rot. Now that’s a labor, for ice is heavy, and the higher Kells are not convenient…Perhaps that’s why they’re so far from their normal territory at this time of year, for easier access to the ice pack up the eastern, more gradual slope of the Kells…

Sister Apothecaire, whose eyes had adjusted more quickly to the gloom, pinched Sister Doctor’s elbow and indicated a massive mound of reeking laundry on a low table. It was rolling on its side and opening its eyes.

“Your Highness, may I present Sisters Lowly and Lower-even-than-that,” said Lord Ottokos, before he remembered to speak in his own tongue. “Ladies, the Princess Nastoya acknowledges your presence.”

She had done nothing of the sort. She had not spoken nor even so much as blinked.

Lord Ottokos continued. “The Princess enquires after your health, assumes it is sufficiently robust or you wouldn’t be here, and compliments you on your courage. Have you news of Liir?”

The maunts turned to each other, but in the darkness of the pavilion they could scarcely read each other’s expressions. “Liir?” said Sister Apothecaire faintly. She was beginning to need her sleeve, as had been proposed.

“The boy who denied he was Elphaba’s son. Is that not why you came to us? To tell us of him? Where is Liir?”

Sister Apothecaire began, “Why, that’s uncanny, I never—” But Sister Doctor cut her off, saying “We came to discover why the Scrow are scraping the faces of unarmed travelers.”

Lord Ottokos made his mouth into a pucker—amused, distressed, it was hard to tell. “I repeat, have you news of Liir?” he said.

“If you’re not interpreting our comments to your senior, need we have this conversation here?” said Sister Doctor.

“My good Sister,” said Lord Ottokos, closing his eyes briefly, as if experiencing a spasm, “the Princess Nastoya entertains visitors only once every several weeks. Do not waste her time. She is waiting to learn what you have to say.”

“Wehave seen Liir, we have!” said Sister Apothecaire, unable to govern herself any longer. “He was found not all that far from here some days ago, and brought to our mauntery for recovery, if he can be recovered.”

“Sister!” barked Sister Doctor.

Sister Apothecaire shot her colleague a look that seemed, vaguely, to imply:Give it a rest

.