Isabelle’s gaze refocused on Bitterlich, and she took just enough of a breath to form a thought before saying, “Just thinking out loud, Major. Yes, Rebecca, you may speak to Major Bitterlich, but no one else, do you understand?”

If the adults’ divergent answers perturbed Rebecca, it didn’t show. “Yes, Capitaine.”

“Very well. What I’m about to tell you is the absolute limit of what I may reveal. Further information will not be forthcoming, do you understand?”

Rebecca hesitated as if she thought she was being tricked, but finally answered in the affirmative.

Isabelle said, “May your vow bind your tongue. My superiors believe the Vault of Ages is on the craton where we’re headed. As of yet we have no proof of that. On the small chance that it is there, it is likely to be a ruin, a spot to which people will someday make pilgrimages.”

Rebecca nodded. “Good pickings on pilgrims.” She was invariably pragmatic about other people’s possessions. “But what if it’s real? I mean, it’s the Savior.”

Isabelle’s lips pressed into a line. Bitterlich had spent the occasional afternoon tea contemplating the divine with her. While she acknowledged the Builder as the creator of all things, she had less use for the Prophecy or the Savior it promised. If he had to guess, he’d say that the notion of trying to compress that complexity into an answer that would satisfy a child had her stymied.

He said, “The thing is, we won’t know until we get there, and we don’t want to start rumors. Imagine if you heard that someone had spilled a barrel of gold coins just around the corner. Everyone would rush in, looking for the gold. Fights would break out even if it turned out there was nothing there. We don’t want that.”

“So we don’t tell anybody because we want it for ourselves,” Rebecca said.

Bitterlich said, “Correct. Though our intentions are not so mercenary.”

“What’s ‘mercenary’?” Rebecca asked.

Isabelle said, “It means done for the purpose of making money, and that will be enough questions for now. I need you to finish putting the bloodhollow away.”

They left a none-too-satisfied Rebecca to her work, and mounted the stairs. His heart lifted in joyous memory of what it was like to be at her side, on the same side, in step without even trying. This was what he’d thrown away.

“We already searched Quill’s belongings,” he said.

“Not the clothes he was wearing,” Isabelle said, her voice a growl. “Not his jewelry.”

“His ring,” Bitterlich said.

“That would be my first guess. It’s quondam metal and it doesn’t fit him.”

“And it’s the sort of thing a dead saint’s hand might be wearing,” Bitterlich said.

They arrived in the great cabin at the door to the guest quarters. Bitterlich rapped to be polite, and then opened the door for Isabelle.