After a short drop-off, Leopold sets down Owl and takes her hand in his. She is, to Iseult’s surprise, unafraid of this strange place. In fact, her Threads are blue calm tinged with rosy joy, as if the cave is familiar.

But are they owls or are they rooks? Iseult thinks again, and another piece of the puzzle sinks into place.

The cave unfolds ahead, its high ceiling rounded and lit by Firewitched torches. A gentle, sulfur-scented mist hovers, bringing moisture to Iseult’s skin. Warmth increases, welcome at first. Then too hot. And eventually, the winding cave gives way to a carved space, lined with columns.

It is a bath, the waters frothing and steaming. Leopold offers no explanation for the room, but simply strides through. With the steam floating around him, he looks like a ghost from centuries past.

Beyond is more cave, winding and twisting in a complex labyrinth of stalagmites and sulfur. The ground ascends slightly, until at last, they reach a wide set of stairs. No one speaks as they climb. Only when they hit the final landing does Leopold break the silence.

“I have no supplies for you. Only a cloak.” He moves to a wooden trunk hiding between two torches. In quick, practiced movements, he has it open and a thick gray cape in hand. “Beyond this wall”—he motions to the stone before them—“is the River Praga. You can follow it east, until you reach the wharves. I have someone there who will meet you.”

“Who?”

“You will know her,” he says simply, and he offers Iseult the cloak.

She wraps her fingers around the rough wool. It will blend in well with the night. “Thank you,” Iseult says, and she means it. She would be dead by Hell-Bard blade right now, if not for him. “Please look after Safi.”

“You know that I will, Dark-Giver.” He bows his head. There is no mockery in his tone or in his Threads—only the grief. The loss. The tears Iseult saw before, a lifetime ago upon the balcony.

And Iseult grasps for some message she can give Safi. Some final departing words that say, “Everything will be all right because I’ll make them so.” But she can think of nothing, so all she says is “Owl, are you ready?”

She turns away from Leopold and kneels before the child. Owl remains calm, unfazed by the strange night or the strange cave. And as Iseult pulls up her hood and tucks her hair out of sight, she even bares a smile. “Zander says we are to play fox and hen tonight.”

“Yes,” Iseult agrees. “That is exactly what we are doing.”

A musty scent rolls over her, and when Iseult rises, she finds a dark river sloshing against reeds where a wall had just been.

“You will get wet,” Leopold says from behind her. He has moved to the stairs again. “But the time in the water is short.”