Han sat up, propping against the wall. Dancer unstoppered the jug and poured him some upland tea.

“Don’t get used to being waited on,” Dancer warned, going back to stoking his amulet. “It’s almost over.” He wore clan garb—leggings and a deerskin tunic beaded in Willo’s distinctive designs, his amulet tucked discreetly underneath.

“You mean to tell me they let two wizards back into Marisa Pines Camp?” Han said. “The Demonai must be going into spasms.”

Dancer laughed again, and Han was pleased that he’d said something that made sense. Something funny, in fact. His brain felt like one of those lacy cheeses they sold at Southbridge Market sometimes—full of big holes in places where he used to know things.

Han’s attention was diverted as someone pushed through the curtain from the next room.

It was Cat Tyburn.

“Hayden! You should see the blades they got in the market here,” she said. “But they’re all a bunch of copperhead thieves, the iron they want for a…” She abruptly stopped speaking when she saw Han sitting up.

She dropped to her knees next to his sleeping bench, staring narrow-eyed into his face. “Cuffs! You awake? You an’t still crazy sick? I was beginning to think you was a Mad Tom for good.”

Cat and Dancer were supposed to be at Oden’s Ford. What were they doing here? Cat especially. She hated the clans, didn’t she?

“What are you doing here?” he said aloud. “You’re supposed to be at school.”

“Me and Dancer came here to beat you senseless for running off without telling anyone where you were going,” Cat said. “We thought it would make more of an impression if we waited ’til you woke up.”

“We weren’t that far behind you,” Dancer said. “Bird finally told me where you’d gone, and why, about a week after you left.” Anger passed across his face like a cloud shadow over a field.

Hmmm, Han thought. Why had he come? And then he remembered: to find Rebecca Morley.

He fastened on that. Where was Rebecca? How had he come to be here? What had happened? How long had he been lying here? That was one of the holes.

“Four days,” Dancer said, as if he’d read his mind. “A lot has happened. A lot has changed.” He studied Han’s face to assess how clearheaded he was. “That’s why I wanted to stoke you up. There’s a lot of pressure from…well, from everyone.”

“Pressure?” Han reached for the jug of tea, missing it on his first pass. He still felt tingly all over, his fingers fat and clumsy, though they looked their regular size. Concentrating, he reached again, took hold of the jug, unstoppered it, and poured, while Dancer watched, hands extended to catch it if Han dropped it.