“Those ones are boiling,” Nev said. “Keep your distance. There’s a bath behind our house that’s warm and safe. We also have a barn that we use as a kind of inn for passing traders. I’m sure it’s nothing like what you’re accustomed to, but you’re welcome to stay there. I’m afraid our house is too small to accommodate you,” she added, in a voice that contained no apology, and the tiniest challenge.

“I’ve slept in plenty of haystacks,” Hava said.

“I spent my last birthday sleeping in a wedge of wet rock while moldy water dripped on my head,” Giddon said.

“Show-off,” said Hava, switching into Lingian to deliver her insult.

“Brat.”

“Bully.”

Giddon was relieved to see Hava’s grin. Hava had a way of peering out across the landscapes of Torla’s Neck, eyes narrowed and calculating, that made him feel like she was planning escape routes. “You know we need you for the Cavenda house operation, right?”

Hava snorted. “Giddon, I am the Cavenda house operation.”

A stone barn with a wood-shingled roof emerged through the trees, with a garden and a tiny stone house just beyond, smoke rising from its chimney.

A sob caught in Nev’s throat, then she began to run.

—

Nev’s father was the only person home, and he couldn’t have been more astonished to see Nev. Or more happy. He embraced her, this steel-haired man named Davvi who was as big as Giddon, tears streaming down his brown face. Nev and Davvi looked very much alike, tall, straight-shouldered. “And a fox kit?” he asked wonderingly.

“We’re not bonded,” said Nev. “I’m just taking care of her. Papa, these are two of the Monsean delegates, Giddon and Hava. Have you heard the news of the Monsean delegates?”

“Yes, of course. I’m so sorry about your queen,” Davvi said to them, with immediate and sincere feeling. “Have you eaten?” he asked next.

He ushered them to a tiny table in a corner of the tiny, dark room, not asking why they’d come, bringing them bowls of a soup of meat and potatoes and thick, delicious slices of buttered bread. Then he stared happily at his daughter while she tried to explain the odd circumstance of their arrival. The silbercows’ stories, Quona Varana’s worries for her safety, her companions’ needs. “They have snooping to do,” she said. “We’ll have to organize a boat. There’s more to tell, but I’ll wait for Mama and Grandpa to get home.”