He turned and retreated into the shadows of the salle, and Skif whirled and ran for the Collegium.

He got his bath—lukewarm, but he hardly noticed—and ate without tasting his supper, in such haste that he came close to choking once. He was in place long before the bell rang, and Alberich, arriving early, smiled to see him there. And to see him in the uniform of a page, the pale-blue and silver that all of Selenay’s pages wore.

“Come,” was all he said, and he didn’t ask where Skif had gotten the uniform. As it happened, he hadn’t stolen it, he’d won it, fair and square. Another little bet. He’d had the feeling that he might need it at some point, and he was still small enough to pass for one of the pages without anyone lifting an eyebrow.

Won’t be able t’pull that much longer, though, he thought with regret. He’d learned a lot, impersonating a page in Lord Orthallen’s service, and he hoped to learn more, slipping into the Palace proper.

“I trust you know how to serve,” Alberich murmured, as they walked together down the corridor, servants whose duty it was to light the lamps passing by them without a second glance.

Skif just snorted.

“I should like to note,” Alberich went on, as they made a turn into the second half of Herald’s Wing, “that I specified you be in a place of concealment.”

“Hide in plain sight,” Skif retorted. “When does any highborn look at a page?”

“Unless it is his own kin—a point you have made. Well, this may serve better than having you lurking in the rafters.” Alberich nodded a greeting to a Herald just emerging from his room; the other saluted him but showed no sign of wanting to stop and talk.

“Can’t see nobody’s face from the rafters,” Skif pointed out.