Memories slid through his mind like scenes from an unfinished play: Jemson’s study at Southbridge Temple, Rebecca touching his bruised face with cool fingers, saying Who did this? like she was ready to go to battle for him; Rebecca, huddled in a corner of his crib in Ragmarket, glaring at him, daring him to make a move. And finally, strutting out of Southbridge Guardhouse, proud as any queen, leading a dozen freed Raggers.

“What is it?” Dancer asked, looking after the fleeing girlie. “Who’s that?”

Han shrugged. “My mistake. She looked like someone I knew back home.”

Cat snorted. “Trust you to go making eyes at a girlie as soon as we arrive.” Dismounting, she led her pony toward the stable doors.

Han hesitated, still staring at the spot where the girlie had disappeared. Even if it wasn’t Rebecca, girlies didn’t usually run away from him.

It probably didn’t help he’d dumped water on her.

It was just as well. His life was complicated enough. Han swung down to the ground and followed after Cat.

After leaving off their horses, they crossed an arching stone bridge lined with shops and taverns that were just opening their doors. Han could smell roasting beef, bacon, and sausage.

They’d ridden straight through lunch that day, in their haste to get to the Ford before dark. Han’s stomach rumbled, and he wondered if they should stop or chance getting something to eat at the dormitory. Dancer and Cat walked on, though, and Han followed after, but not without some longing backward looks.

Mystwerk Hall was the size of the cathedral temple in Fellsmarch, a sprawling building that had been added onto with no obvious plan in mind. The wings of the building warred with each other, divided in front by the original temple, circling around for a back-alley fight in the rear. The temple was topped with a tall stone bell tower pierced with tall windows, like narrowed eyes.

Any one part would have been beautiful on its own, but taken together they created a brittle tension that appealed to Han.

An older student occupied a desk in the front hall of the building, his head bent over a spidery manuscript, one hand twisting a lock of his tightly curled hair. He was from Bruinswallow, maybe—and his robe was edged with gold thread.

Han and his friends hesitated in the doorway, waiting to be acknowledged, but the young man seemed engrossed in his reading and didn’t look up.

“The fancy work means he’s a proficient,” Dancer whispered, fingering his own plain sleeve.

“What’s a proficient?” Han asked, wishing he knew more about what he was getting into.