Han shivered and shuddered through the rest of the night, alternately freezing and sweating. He thought it was shock, or rage, or maybe an aftermath of what Gavan Bayar had done to him with his magic; but by morning he realized he’d caught Mari’s fever.

Let me die, he thought gratefully, giving himself up to it. He was out of his head for a while, hours or days, he wasn’t sure. When he woke, he saw Willo’s face looking down at him with an expression of such sorrow that he found he wanted to make her feel better. She cradled him in her arms and rocked him and fed him willow bark and matriarch’s tea, which was apparently good for summer fever, because it broke soon after.

Somehow he’d ended up back at Southbridge Temple, in one of the little sleeping rooms that let out onto the courtyard. A week passed before he was able to get up, and by then Flinn reported that the bluejackets had lost interest in the remains of the stable and had moved on to whatever other murders they meant to commit.

Cat and the Raggers had guarded the site, keeping nearby residents from claiming any spoils. Afraid of what he might find, but no longer worried about who might be watching, Han poked through the rubble of his former home until he found them—two bodies huddled close together amid the ruins of the chimney, one big, one small, too charred to recognize or to tell what had been done to them before they died.

“The smoke would have put them to sleep, Hunts Alone,” Willo said. She’d scarcely left him alone for a minute these past seven days. “They probably didn’t feel much pain.”

Probably. Probably. It wasn’t good enough.

Han found Mam’s locket that was her mother’s, half melted from the heat, and Mari’s charred little book of stories, the one she’d wanted to read to him when he’d been in too big a hurry to listen. He tucked those into his carry bag. In midmorning, Willo walked to the market to buy food for the road. Han took that opportunity to pull the wrapped amulet from its hiding place in the blacksmith’s furnace and drop it into his bag as well. He’d sacrificed too much for the thing to leave it behind.

Without a second glance at Cobble Street, he walked to Cat’s crib in the warehouse, where he knew she’d be during the day. Sarie and Flinn were playing nicks-and-bones. Sweets and Jonas were teasing a couple of stripey cats with bits of string. Cat’s mandolin leaned against the wall, but no Cat and no Velvet.

Sarie scrambled to her feet when Han entered, an expectant, guarded look on her face. “Hey,” she said.

Han didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “Where’s Cat?” he asked.