She could learn another language readily enough, Silvy supposed. She was clever, wasn’t she? Everyone said so. She was young, could start anew somewhere else. People did that all the time.

But really…where was safety to be found? Was Batiara safe? Not if you believed the stories told. She had friends here, a roof, a bed (sometimes shared with women or men, sometimes pleasingly). She had a life.

It entered her mind unexpectedly that she was missing Thierry’s voice right now, amid all this loud, stupid talk. He might be sardonic but he wouldn’t be stupid.

Of course she was missing him, was the next, quick thought. He was her friend!

Later that night, when she finally fell into bed (her own bed), she listened to the wind for a while, then the bells. It did feel as if it was warmer. She had no idea what to make of that. Decided there was nothing to make of it. Slept, eventually.

—

Medor Colle performed an intricate sequence of knocks at the door. Thierry was good at remembering such things, mostly without even trying, and he did so now. Had an idea of where they were in the city, but no notion why they were at this house.

Nothing of this situation was remotely familiar to him. He was still acutely aware the Barratin guards might easily have killed him. It was strange to be aware of that, think about it. Someone had written that life was an island of light between darkness and darkness. Unless Jad granted you greater light when you died.

Medor said, while they waited, “If you prefer not to be known, best say nothing. May be wisest in any case.”

“I will be as silent as all the bodies in all the burial places of Orane,” Thierry promised. Medor made a face.

They heard a bolt being drawn back, then a second one. The door was opened.

Later, he would try to remember his first impression of Gauvard Colle. But though the person who opened to them—himself, not a servant—carried a lamp, and there were others hanging on the hallway wall behind…Thierry couldn’t. There was an odd kind of blurring, a shifting, lack of clarity. As if his eyes were looking through rain, or tears.

Once inside a handsome home, and seated in a large, well-furnished room with a going fire, he saw more clearly, as if the figure who’d opened the door had somehow taken pains to be obscured until confident of who had come.

“Medor!” he had said at the doorway. “Nephew! And a companion I don’t know.” A light, quick, precise voice.

“Can be trusted, Gauvard,” Medor said. “I’ll vouch.”

A nod. “Come in then. Kiss me, first.”