“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” the innkeeper said. Zezili didn’t like the sympathy in her voice.

After eating, Zezili ordered a warm brandy.

“Anything else before I go to bed?” the innkeeper asked. “I’ve given you a room on the second floor, end of the hall. There’s a shared privy. You have your own sink, though.”

“Thanks,” Zezili said, and slipped the key into the pouch at her hip. “I’ll be fine for the night.” She found a broad, comfortable chair by the fire in the dining room and sipped the brandy. She was at Lake Morta. Anavha was not. She was uncertain what to do next except drink.

The innkeeper left her a lantern by the chair and put out the rest of the lights in the common room. She bolted the door. Zezili wondered if she had any security out here. Surely she had some hulking swordswoman around to deal with rabble?

Zezili sat in the semi-darkness, drinking and considering her next move. A sane woman would go back to Monshara. A sane woman would forget about a runaway man. But every time she thought of Anavha lost, her chest hurt and her vision blurred.

As she watched the banked coals of the fire flake and fade, she heard a sound from outside. She thought at first it was just the wind, but the wind became words. A muttering voice. Clunking on the porch. Then rapping on the door. More muttering.

Zezili went to the window.

“Don’t open it.”

She glanced back. Isoail was coming down the stairs, her long skirt caught up in one hand. She carried a lantern in the other.

“You heard it from up there?”

“I expected it,” Isoail said. “You already pulled one thing from the lake tonight. They come in pairs now.”

“What do?”

Isoail shuttered her lantern and stood with Zezili at the window. In the light from the moons, Zezili saw a hunched, hooded figure standing on the porch. It leaned against the door. As Zezili watched, the figure brought up its hand. Knocked again. Then began to scratch at the door.

“What is it?” Zezili said, low. “If it’s dangerous, I can kill it.”

“I could kill it just as well,” Isoail said. “Listen to that language. Do you know it?”

“No,” Zezili said.

“Then let it be,” Isoail said. “Sometimes when something comes through, it triggers another event. Other things… come after.”

They watched the figure in silence for some minutes. Zezili saw a hank of pale hair escape the hood. An older woman, then, or an Aaldian? The figure snorted. Laughed. A small, childish giggle that made Zezili’s flesh crawl.

After what felt like hours, the figure shuffled off the porch and waded back toward the road.

Zezili glanced over at Isoail. “Who was it?”

“Something from the lake,” Isoail said. “Not all of them are as docile as that dajian upstairs.”

“I don’t understand.”