Silvy looked her up and down, then turned to Thierry. “The last time an aristocrat came to see the common folk here it did not turn out well for you, if memory serves.”

She wasn’t one to hide her thoughts.

Marina looked at her and smiled. “I’m not Jolis de Charette, and she’s not an aristocrat.”

“I see. Forgive me for not knowing the precise rankings of wealthy people, my lady.”

“I’m not wealthy, either. My family and I live on the patronage of the wealthy. Precariously. I write poetry to survive.” She smiled again. “I think I like you. You would probably like me, if you gave us both a chance.”

Silvy just stared, then walked away.

Thierry bought wine for his guest, introduced her to some of the poets in the tavern, and to Eudes, who was courteous and inscrutable, as always. Later, a few of the other poets recited their work, and Thierry accepted a call to do so. It was what he did. What he was. No politically volatile poems, even if he’d already written one mocking Denis Cassin.

What he was, he thought, included not being a complete fool.

Marina drank two cups of wine at a table near the bar, sitting among the other poets. She declined, smiling, to recite.

“I am only a visitor tonight,” she said, “happy among you all.”

She left early, still smiling, that wide mouth. Thierry watched her go. She turned in the doorway, gave him a nod. He felt uncertain what more had been expected of him. She was young still, brilliant, not beautiful, but arrestingly appealing. And brave, he thought.

Silvy was still angry. He wasn’t entirely sure why.

Weeks passed. It had become full spring, suddenly, almost overnight, not just the promise of it.

And then someone tried to knife him in the dark, as he was coming back to The Lamb from a tavern on the other side of the river, and things changed.

He’d heard footsteps in a quiet street, well after curfew, and was seized by a memory of the day he’d been to Barratin’s home and was pursued at sundown, and fled. They’d chased him into The Fife. A man had died.

He changed direction now, started walking faster, then running towards the provost’s house. Again, a memory. He had lived this before. He was supposed to have a guard! The guard he had argued against. It was quite possible the man had gone to sleep by now. It was late this time. There was only so much the provost could do for a man who didn’t even want protection.

He saw someone leaving another inn up ahead. The White Hart. He grabbed a coin from his purse as he moved. “Wait!” he said to the man in the street. “Take this, run with it. It’s yours, just run!”