She hesitated; I said, “Ask. Whatever it is.”

She still hesitated, then blurted out, “Do you witness for many murders?”

“The Brotherhood come to me first, yes. But murders are not common. I have been here six months and there have only been two. Well, three, although in that case we brought the murderer to the Brotherhood rather than the other way around.”

She smiled suddenly. “That sounds like a story that needs to be told.”

I explained Broset Sheveldar and his trail of dead wives. She listened wide-eyed and had a flood of questions, which I did my best to answer, although there were still things about Broset Sheveldar I did not know and never would, for he had been cremated and his ashes scattered immediately after the execution.

By the time Tomasaran was done asking questions, the bells of the Amal’theileian’s clock were tolling noon. We had lunch at my usual zhoän and then set out for Cemchelarna. Tomasaran looked around eagerly; as we started to cross the Abandoned Bridge, I asked, “How large is the town you come from?”

“Nothing like this,” she said. “Oh, goodness!” An elven street acrobat flipped off her goblin partner’s shoulders to land on her feet. The people watching applauded, and the girl flashed a brilliant smile before flinging herself at her partner, who caught her, swung her around his body, and somehow she was on his shoulders again, this time with her shoulders against his and her feet uppermost. Her soft, voluminous trousers were gathered at the ankle and preserved what modesty she cared to have.

I tugged gently at Tomasaran’s sleeve. “They perform daily.”

“Do they?” She followed me, though she craned backwards like a child as the girl revolved around her partner’s body again and this time came up standing on his shoulders. “That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”

“They start training very young,” I said. That was another option for foundlings, if they got lucky and had the aptitude the Acrobats’ Guild looked for. But very few of them did.

I remembered the way to Merrem Nadaran’s boardinghouse; I was glad to see the green-and-silver flag flying to show that she had rooms available. And Min Nadin was still on the porch, well bundled against the nip in the air, quilting in her steady, tiny stitch.

“Othala!” she said. “I thought we wouldn’t see you again. Have you come for a room?”

“Yes, but not for me. This is Othalo Tomasaran. She is new to town.”

Min Nadin looked her over, eyes bright and curious. “Is it just you, othalo?”

“Yes,” Tomasaran said, and bluntly answered the unasked question, “I am a widow.”

Min Nadin nodded. “That’s simpler, then. Rooms aren’t really big enough for two.” She called for her niece, who came out to the porch drying her hands on her apron.

“Aunt Rhadeän? What is— Oh! Hello, Othala Celehar. Can I help you with something?”

“This is Othalo Tomasaran,” I said. “She needs a room, and I thought of your establishment.”