Giving the contortionist one last puzzled glance—she could not begin to puzzle out what the woman had twisted herself into now—she turned away. And started as Elayne and Birgitte suddenly appeared at her side out of the milling crowd. Elayne had a cloak decently covering her white coat and breeches; Birgitte was all but flaunting her low-necked red gown. No, there was no “all but” to it. She stood even straighter than usual and had tossed back her braid to remove even its minimal covering. Nynaeve fingered the knot of her shawl at her waist, wishing every glance at Birgitte did not remind her how much she herself would be showing once the gray wool came off. The other woman’s quiver hung at her belt, and she carried the bow Luca had found for her. Surely the day was too late for her to go through with the shooting.

A glance at the sky told Nynaeve she was wrong. Despite everything that had happened, the sun still stood well above the horizon. Shadows stretched long, but not long enough to dissuade Birgitte, she suspected.

In an attempt to cover checking the sun, she nodded toward the woman in the gauzy trousers, who had now begun to twist herself into something that Nynaeve knew was impossible. While still balancing on her teeth. “Where did she come from?”

“Luca hired her,” Birgitte answered calmly. “He bought some leopards, as well. Her name is Muelin.”

If Birgitte was all self-possessed coolness, Elayne very nearly quivered with emotion. “ ‘Where did she come from?’ ” she spluttered. “She came from a show that a mob nearly destroyed!”

“I heard about that,” Nynaeve said, “but that isn’t what is important. I—”

“Not important!” Elayne rolled her eyes to the heavens as if for guidance. “Did you also hear why? I don’t know whether it was Whitecloaks or this Prophet, but somebody whipped up that mob because they thought . . .” She glanced around without slowing and lowered her voice; none of the crowd had stopped, but every passerby stared at two obvious performers standing. “. . . that a woman in the show might wear a shawl.” She emphasized the last word significantly. “Fools to think she’d be with a traveling menagerie, but then, you and I are. And you go dashing into the city without a word to anyone. We’ve heard everything from a bald-headed man carrying you off over his shoulder to you kissing a Shienaran and traipsing away with him arm in arm.”