He sat as if all his strings had been cut and leaned forward, elbows on knees, to put his face in his hands. “My wife,” he said. “Brenaro. She managed our finances, and I know she kept our money hidden somewhere, but I cannot find it. I have looked and looked … othala, it is such a stupid thing to be worrying about when she is—I cannot pay for her funeral.” He made a noise, a choked-off sob, and did not raise his head.

“All right,” I said. “And you need me to ask her where the money is?”

“Yes,” he said. “Please.”

“Of course,” I said. “Othalo Tomasaran, will you come with us?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, surprised.

“There’s no better way to learn than to practice,” I said, and got up to get my coat.

“My valise? I couldn’t leave it at the Ulistheileian, but…”

“It will be safe here,” I said. “I will lock the door.”

“All right,” she said and visibly steeled herself for what was to come. “I am ready.”

She probably wasn’t, but that was another thing one learned with practice.

The young man’s name was Keila Osthonharad; he had been married for a little less than a year. He was from a tiny village in the Mervarnens and had come to the city to find work. His wife had been Amaleise. They had been, he said, too poor to get married, but they had been desperately in love and had decided they would just somehow make it work.

They lived in the Marigold Rookeries, and Brenaro Osthonharad had very sensibly said that they had to hide their money, or it would be stolen. “She was right,” Mer Osthonharad said miserably. “Our apartment was broken into two or three times—maybe four, we were never sure—but they never found the money.”

“And she didn’t tell you where it was?”

“She said if I trusted her, I didn’t need to know. And I did trust her. So, no. She didn’t.”

Merrem Osthonharad had died two days ago, in childbirth. No one was sure if the baby was going to survive. “And I have to pay the midwife,” Mer Osthonharad said. “And the wet nurse. They’re being very patient, but I can’t—” He broke off, looking around the tram car as if looking for his dead wife. “All I have is the money that was in my pockets. I think I’ve got about ten zashanei left for dinner.”

“I will do my best to help you,” I said.

“Thank you, othala.” He rubbed his eyes with one hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I keep hoping I’ll wake up and this will all have been an awful dream, and it keeps not happening.”

We got off the tram at the Ulvanen’ostro and walked to Ulvanensee, where they were holding Merrem Osthonharad’s body in preparation for the funeral. Anora looked relieved to see me. “Othala,” he said, “you come in good time.” And he raised his eyebrows politely at Othalo Tomasaran.