On the Southbridge side, the temple stood on one side of the Way, the guardhouse on the other, like emblems of good and evil. Raisa leaned against the temple wall and studied the guardhouse. It looked impregnable, its windows like slitted eyes sneering at her. There was no way Cuffs and his gang were getting in and out of there.

At least she could find out if what they said was true—were they really holding three Raggers in the guardhouse, and were they really being tortured?

She took a deep breath and tried to center herself in her work, as Elena always said. Then she crossed the Way to the guardhouse door.

The lone guard at the door surveyed her in a bored fashion. In the guardroom beyond, several soldiers diced and played cards.

“What do you want?” he barked.

“I…ah…it’s my sister, Sarie,” Raisa said in a whiny voice. “She got ta’en by the bl…the Queen’s Guard th’other day. In Ragmarket. I was told she was here. I brung her some dinner is all.” She shook the bakery bag.

The guard grabbed it away from her. “We’ll see she gets it,” he said, dismissing her.

Well. That wouldn’t do at all.

“Please, sir,” Raisa persisted. “I was hoping as I could see her, you know. It’s been three days, an’ I wondered how she was getting on. She’s been sick lately, and three days in gaol can’t be doing her good.”

“No visitors.” He squinted at her suspiciously. “You should know that a’ready.”

Raisa snatched at his sleeve, and he slapped her hand away, gripping the hilt of his sword. “Stay off! You bloody little—”

“Please. I’ve got some money, sir,” Raisa quavered. “Not a lot, but some, and…”

The guard turned back to her, interest lighting his face. “If you’ve got money, let’s see it, then.”

“I will. You’ll see, sir. Only maybe after…” Raisa began.

The guard’s hand snaked forward. He gripped the neck of her shirt and yanked her toward him. “Don’t play games with me, girl.” He drew back his huge fist, and Raisa’s mouth went dry with fear, but then a voice came from behind him.

“Let the girl in, Sloat. Lemme see her.”

Sloat released her and stepped aside.

The man who’d spoken sat at a table by the fire, with greasy plates, playing cards, and several empty mugs arrayed before him. He had a thin, cruel face and muddy brown eyes, lank hair that hung to his shoulders. He wore the blue uniform of the Queen’s Guard, and the bars on his collar said he was a sergeant.

“Come here, girl,” the sergeant said, motioning to her with a smile that turned Raisa’s bowels to water.

Reluctantly, she crossed the room and stood before him, keeping her eyes downcast. Why had she thought this was a good idea?