“You have the panther. Nothing will get by her.”

“Good-bye, then,” said Sister Doctor. “I hope you have learned something from us.” Sister Apothecaire sniffled into a souvenir shawl that she’d bought at an inflated price from a Scrow weaver.

Shem Ottokos watched them leave. He did wish them well, at least as far as the mauntery, and the completion of their task for his Princess. Beyond that, he wished them nothing at all: Let their Unnamed God go on unnaming their lives for them.

THE SNOUT OF THE JACKALmoon poked over the line of the trees.

Liir was nearly grey. The bleeding was staunched, but his heart was lurching. Candle worked at her throat, trying to scream for help, but she could not make that strong a sound.

No, she thought, the poor cold boy, no. Not this.

She put her domingon down and rubbed his shoulders. Then she removed his splints and braces and massaged his arms and legs. The air was turning from chilly to icy, and the extra blankets were in the hallway, beyond the locked door. She felt something lurch in him—he, who had been absent for so long—something kicked and resisted the death that seemed to be settling upon him. His breath was halting. A long moment without a breath; another.

She leaned over his brow from above, and held his newly bearding cheeks in both hands, and laid her nose next to his, and breathed into him, and kissed him besides.

“WELL,THERE’SSOMETHING FOR YOU, NOW,”said Chyde. “It never hurts to read the small print, my lad. Jibbidee, my walking stick? And it’s not even that far, though in a quarter I rarely get to visit myself. Let’s go.”

The elf came forward with a walking stick, and Chyde stood erect, or as erect as he could. Long years of desk work had crushed his hips cruelly, and his posture was poor.

Still, at a new angle, he was able to look Liir over a bit more thoroughly than he’d yet managed.

“You hadn’t ought to have arrived with a firearm,” he said with sudden harshness.

“You’ll leave that with Jibbidee at once, my lad-ee-oh.”

“It’s no firearm. It’s a broom.”

“Show it me.”

Liir opened the satchel and displayed the top end of the charred broom-pole.

“Let me see the length of it, to be sure it’s not a blunder-bulleter in disguise.” The broom was withdrawn and Liir handed it over. “A right wreck of a thing, but for the new growth,” said Chyde, handing it back.

“What?”

Liir didn’t ask again, but felt it. The broom handle was notched with young nubs, and two of them had split, revealing modest embellishments of pale green leaf, like tiny rare broaches pinned to an old bit of scrap wood.

“It can’t grow!” said Liir in amazement. “It can’t do that.”