It was Cat Tyburn, but Han might not have recognized her had she not opened her mouth. Her mass of wiry curls had been tamed down and woven into a long plait that fell over her left shoulder. She wore white trousers and a long white overtunic split up each side for easier walking. She was cleaner than Han had ever seen her—except for the stained leather belt she’d strapped on overtop, her knife jammed into it. She still wore silver in her ears and nose and on her fingers. Between that and her blade scars and the thief marks on her hands, it was an odd marriage of sacred and profane.

They hadn’t seen her in two weeks, though not for lack of trying. Several times they’d visited the temple dormitory, but had been told she was unavailable. And she hadn’t come to see them, either.

Han stumbled into speech. “Cat, you…uh…you’re…I don’t think I’ve ever—what happened to you?”

“They stuck me in a bath, and while I was scrubbing off, they stole my clothes and left me with these.” She tugged at the hem of her tunic. “They told me I had to stay seques…holed up in the Temple School for a fortnight, and think about my vocation.” She made a face. “It don’t take that long. It’s not like I got a lot of choices.”

As they got into line in the dining hall, Cat continued her litany of complaints. “The sun an’t even up when this bell starts clanging and we get out of bed and go to morning meditations. Then it’s bells, bells, bells, and class, class, class all day. For hours. Reading and writing and mathematics.” She pinched two apples and an orange off the line and stuffed them into her carry bag. “After lunch is better. There’s music class and dance and drawing.”

Ladling soup into bowls, they carried them to a long table.

Cat used her belt knife to whack off hunks of brown bread from a loaf in the center of the table. “I liked the school at Southbridge. You only had to go when you felt like it.”

“How often did you feel like it?” Dancer asked, dunking his bread into his bowl.

“I was there near every month,” Cat said, slathering her bread with butter.

“She means once a month, on the day they gave out cinnamon bread,” Han said, and received a scowl from Cat.

“You an’t been there for years,” Cat retorted. “Not since you was streetlord.”

Well. He’d been there the one time. He’d been beaten half to death by Mac Gillen and his bluejackets and had taken refuge with Speaker Jemson in the temple. Corporal Byrne had tried to take him prisoner, and Han took Rebecca Morley hostage. It seemed a lifetime ago.