She turned sharply, looking away from the gate as quickly as she could, snapping the foolish hope she invented and breaking her heart. “You are sorry? Do you even know why you apologize…because I do not! For which of these grievous lack of deeds do you feel remorse? I asked! I asked for help! I never need help…and I need help! He is out there. He is out there because of me and I swore to take care of him and the last time I saw him…the last time…why will none of you help me?!” She flew right into Flyn’s face, the tears she held back threatening to engulf her. “You train out here with your stick and your sword, when you should be practicing with a quill and parchment! You are not knights! You are councilors and speechmakers! You are useless and you sit idly by when earnestly asked for aid! There is a savage threat out there, running free, killing and burning without restraint or challenge. The dwarf told you I spoke true and still you do not stand. You are cowards!”

Flyn said nothing. His face was full of anger, but it was not directed at her. She followed his gaze over her shoulder and found Sir Corc staring at them.

“Bantam Flyn,” he said evenly. “Where is Pocket?” And when he did not get an immediate answer, “Flyn!”

“At the stables,” the squire replied, his expression unchanged. “With Old Lochlann.”

“Get him,” the knight said. “And then the two of you go to the chandler’s under Ten Ferries Bridge. There will be a message for me. Bring it back here.”

Rosheen felt the squire linger and look at her, as if waiting for absolution, but she had eyes only for the older coburn. When they were alone, she spoke.

“You heard?”

Sir Corc nodded.

“Good. Then you know what I think of you.”

He regarded her for a long moment, his face impassive. “Come with me,” he said at last and was out the gate without looking to see if she followed.

She did.

It was late morning, and the streets heaved with all manner of dusty traffic. The poor and bedraggled mixed with the perfumed and powerful, every one of them a prisoner in the unnatural patterns they believed were necessary to survive in this hive of cramped filth. Rosheen had been in Black Pool barely a week and already she wanted nothing but to flee its walls, its roofs, its gutters, its canals, leave it all behind before she was smothered under a mountain of shingles, cobblestones and masonry. She would find a grove, an orchard, even just a field and she would breathe deeply. Invite the clean air, the flowing water, the living world back into her body and hold it inside until she shuddered with exquisite relief. But all of that would have to wait until she discovered where this coburn was taking her.