I couldn’t pretend I had other business—Tomasaran would know I was lying. I consented, and we made the long journey from the Prince Zhaicava Building to the boardinghouse. It was getting too cold for Min Nadin to sit on the porch, but she saw us from the front window and waved.

The front rooms on the house’s ground floor were a pair of sitting rooms, each with double doors opening onto the hall. Min Nadin had taken over one room with the quilt she was piecing. In the other, an elderly elven man was gravely reading the Arbiter front to back.

Merrem Nadaran emerged from the kitchen to say, “Lunch is almost ready. Oh, hello, Othala Celehar. I’m so pleased you could come. Velhiro, wilt thou help Aunt Rhadeän with the quilt? It really shouldn’t be left lying on the floor.”

“Of course,” said Tomasaran. I went with her and between the two of us we managed to get the quilt confined to one sofa. It was a beautiful thing, a pinwheel-like swirl of tiny triangles all the colors one could dye a piece of cloth.

“I only do this one once every five years or so,” said Min Nadin. “That’s long enough that I forget how fiddly it is.”

“It is very beautiful,” I said.

“That’s why I do it once every five years,” said Min Nadin.

We went in to lunch together, in the long dining room where three tables had been pushed together to make one.

“At dinner, when everyone’s here, we need this much space,” said Merrem Nadaran, “although it looks a little silly now. Come sit down at this end and I’ll cut the tart.” She had made an egg tart big enough to feed an army. As she was carving slices and handing them around, a part-goblin woman, middle-aged and plain, came in and said, “Hello, my darlings! I have the good gossip today.”

“Hello, Camilo,” said Min Nadin. “What hast thou heard?”

“The Marquess Ulzhavel has committed suicide.”

Tomasaran and I both startled. “Are you sure, Lethormin?” said Tomasaran.

“Oh, yes,” said Min Lethormin. “It’s his heir who brought the news to the Amal’theileian, trying to find out how to get probate expedited. The poor old man made hezhelta tea and drank a toast to his wife’s portrait. He was dead before any of the servants even knew what was going on.”

“How horrible,” said Merrem Nadaran.

“But why?” said Tomasaran.

“He left a letter,” said Min Lethormin. “The new marquess was waving it at everyone he talked to. The old marquess said that without his wife, he found nothing worthwhile in living. He waited long enough to be sure that her murderer would be executed, but he saw no reason to wait any longer.”

“Grief,” said Tomasaran.