

Unlikely

Frances Pauli

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Unlikely copyright © 2013 Frances Pauli

Smashwords edition

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

Requests to use the material will be considered and may be directed to:

Frances Pauli at: author@francespauli.com

Published by Gastropod Press

UNLIKELY

A Kingdoms Gone Story

Many thanks to the Moses Lake Muses for their continued support and tireless assistance. This book, like so many others, would not exist without the help of my friends and fellow authors, beta readers and devoted editors in that lovely circle.

Chapter One

Satina could smell the paper from the street facing entrance. She stood just inside the stone arch and inhaled the crisp, slightly-musty aroma of old knowledge. Outside the nook, the sea still dominated the evening air, tangy and full of salt and fish and other slippery creatures. Here, however, she could block out the tide for a moment and enjoy the smells of home. Stories lived here, and any town that boasted an archive, that still cared about what once was, was worth her time—even a port town.

Even one that belonged to the Shades.

She ignored that mark, glowing faintly over the doorway inside and out, and lifted her skirts and cape hem enough to enter the main room. It wasn't quite three stories, and the scrolls that rested on the rickety shelves had long gaps between them, empty spaces where the stories stopped, where history paused and waited to be filled in by the knowledgeable—or the creative. Still, books were books, and she felt her shoulders relax instantly in the presence of these.

The late hour had brought only one other wanderer to the stacks. A woman in a green dress and ratty shawl slumped at one of the reading desks. She'd found a proper book, neatly bound in leather that frayed at each corner, and she lifted the pages with a soft hand, so focused that she failed to give any sign that she noticed Satina's entrance.

The custodian, however, did not fail to notice. He stumped across the floor boards with the help of a slim cane. His back hunched as much as the woman's, but it had the permanent curl of long years behind it. A sparse patch of white hair waved at the back of his bald head, and his eyes were barely visible between wrinkles that looked more than a little like old leather. Satina imagined him as a book as well, worn but still brimming with information.

She brushed her cloak back behind her shoulders and marched out to meet him. Reading tables stood to either side, and behind those, the shelves rose all the way to the high ceiling. The old man didn't come straight at her. He wandered in a serpentine between and around the tables, muddled perhaps, or maybe driven by long custom to a well trodden path. Either way, the center aisle was clear and yet he drifted around to her left side and approached between the rows.

"Hello?"

"Eh?" His cane thumped a final, reverberating clank against the boards, and he leaned forward and titled his head to the side. "You want to read something?"

"Yes, no. I mean I do, but..." But I need a place to hide out. But they're after me, and your archive felt safe and homey. "I was just hoping for a quiet moment."

"Well, quiet we can do." He chuckled, and his old shoulders bounced with it. The gesture went a long ways toward calming her as well. His lips shifted into a smile. Friendly. Here where the paper smelled better than the sea, she'd found exactly what she'd hoped. "This way."

Satina followed him to the front of the room. They went straight on the return trip, as if his sideways ritual had been appeased. Each step brought a thump of the cane, rattled the shelves and sent a soft whisper of papers rustling. Very nice.

"You're a goodmother." His voice was low to begin with, but facing away from her, it dimmed even more, and she had to stretch to catch his words. "Aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Not something you see every day."

"I can imagine."

"You grant wishes too?" He stopped beside a tall podium. It faced out across the tables, allowing him to watch the doorway and read at the same time. But she hadn't seen him behind it when she entered, had she?

"Sometimes." She'd missed the second tag too, the glowing Shade symbol etched and also painted across the podium's front.

"I got me a wish," he said.

Satina took a step backwards. There was only open aisle behind her, and she could run well when she needed to. "Oh?"

"Oh yes." His old hand shot up, and Satina heard the woman at the table move. She heard the pattering footsteps that would put her directly behind and right in the center of the aisle. "It doesn't pay well, reading books."

"You want money?" She could work with that. She'd done it before, but the woman he'd ordered to block her exit suggested this wouldn't be quite that simple.

"There's a reward for her." The lady's voice rasped more from hard living than age. She probably drank, but then, living in a gang town did that to you. "I seen the flier."

"I can get you more than that." Satina stepped back quickly, heard the woman come forward and saw her answer on the old man's face. Her fingers slipped inside her cloak, and her eyes scanned the building, tried to peer back farther, behind the stacks. "I can grant bigger wishes than that."

The custodian came forward, nodding his head until the white fluff danced madly. When he stopped, his eyes stretched wide enough she could almost make out their color. "Except, we'd rather just have the reward. You see, we're a Shade town, goodmother, and you are worth more than money here."

Satina had no answer to that. There was no answer to it. She bolted straight for him instead. His arms snatched at her cloak, but he was by far the feebler of the two Shades, and she pressed past him, dodging enough that his fingers only brushed the fabric. She threw a handful of powder back over her shoulder, igniting it with a thought. The flash would earn her only a few strides lead, but a few strides would help.

The custodian shouted to the woman, and the clatter of feet chased her to the back wall. No exit there, but she'd seen a glint of moonlight to the left. She spun and slipped behind the shelves, leaping a pile of books and an old crate and making for what she prayed was an unbarred window.

"Stop her!" The man screamed from his podium, too feeble for the chase even.

Satina paused at the open sill, threw a leg outside and looked back to find the woman way too close behind her. She shoved off, fell the short drop to the brush below the window and thanked her goodmother luck for an archive in an old enough building not to have glass panes, not to have its shutters locked.

"She's here!" Her luck ran out when the woman started screaming. "The Granter is here!"

Lights moved in the streets. Feet pounded against paver stones and even the distant wharfs shifted their attention to her, to the criminal in their midst. Satina bolted uphill, not by the wide road but out across the fields. She ducked through a slick, wooden fence and ran out through the moonlight toward the nearest stand of trees and the pocket hiding in their shelter.

Her cloak billowed like a shadow behind her. She held her skirts high and churned each step closer to safety. They'd spotted her, of course. Men with torches at the fence, slipping through, following her. A dog bayed, and she ran faster, ran until her chest tightened.

The forest drew her in, but the Shades would not stop at its edge. She fled through a thin strip of brush, leaped a fallen log and skidded to a stop beside a tree like any one of the others. The dog growled, just on the far side of the log. Satina stopped to face it. She watched the flames drifting into the woods, saw the torches come.

She should have known better than to try this town. Too many nights sleeping on cold ground had softened her good senses. She'd only thought the archive, thought that a town with an archive, might see past gangs and affiliations. A stupid thought. Now the Shade town faced her, a ring of anger and flame. The dog snarled, and the goodmother Granter stepped one pace to the side and vanished.

Chapter Two

The staircase ended in mid air. Moss caked the stone surface, crowding into the cracks and lending a spongy, green pattern to the ruined structure. The steps turned once, bent as if they still followed the wall that had long since crumbled around them. They rose to a second story that no longer existed, continued to climb and then stopped on nothing, as if one might find some hidden doorway there, hanging in space, some portal to a world long lost.

Satina huddled in the shadow beside the structure, pulled her heavy cloak tighter and pondered the stairway. Pretty. That arch of stone whispered of the Kingdoms as they once were. They sang of the time when the world still embraced magic and the Gentry races mingled freely with humans. A time when she would have been welcome anywhere.

Ironic, the dramatic illusion, the thought of ancient portals hanging in space. She squinted, made her eyes shift to a subtler vision and eyed the authentic portal, the genuine door she'd slipped through only moments before. The one that had just saved her skin. The real thing shimmered twenty feet away from the elegant ruin, but it marked a spot of little visual import, a bush, a stretch of mud like any other—except for the pocket of Old Space hiding behind it.

She sniffed and pressed her back against the mossy stones. For the moment the pocket didn't matter much. Satina let her eyes drift, still seeing what she could. The portal had brought her here, and now she needed to know where here was and, more importantly, who held sway over the area.

A muddy road wound through the forest only a short trot from the staircase. Deep ruts, where a wagon had passed not so long before, gleamed in the moonlight. Rain had fallen recently, though long enough past that the foliage had already dried. The woods themselves were thick and shrouded, offering only hints of the terrain beyond between thin tree trunks and dense shrubbery. Farmland, no doubt, with a well-traveled roadway. She'd find a village close by, a cluster of hard-working souls seeking nothing more than health and safety.

Maybe she could help them.

Convinced the pocket had delivered her where she could do some work, Satina settled her attention on the stairway's arch. She'd been on the run too long to remember safety, the warmth and promise of a permanent residence. No matter. Her lot rarely found a long-term welcome among civilized folk anyway. Even without a price on her head, her trace of Gentry blood set her forever apart.

These stairs made a perfect boundary, a lone sentinel and reminder of the Old Kingdoms. Had she been affiliated, she might have tagged them herself, and so she circled it now, convinced that either gang would agree with her assessment. The soft ground made little sound under her steps, and her cloak hung in a wave the same color as the night so that she feared little of detection, little compared to the knot of unease that would not rest until she'd made certain she hadn't landed amid the Shades.

But the old stones held no tag, no mark of any sort visible to her sight, mundane or otherwise. A second circuit produced the same results, and she had to concede. The area, by some miracle, had escaped notice, though she'd long believed not an inch of these lands hadn't been divided and tagged to one affiliation or the other by now.

She'd heard rumors, tales of places still untouched by Shade or Starlight, but doubted, even here in the face of the unmarked stair, that she'd been lucky enough to escape that noose. She had found shelter though, tagged or not, and the wind bore enough trace of moisture and chill that she'd soon be grateful for it.

Satina scooted into the shadow beneath the stones. Her hand followed the surface, squishing pillowy moss and guiding her steps until the arch sheltered her completely. Then she dropped into a squat, tossing her cloak open and rummaging in one of her many leather bags with her free hand. The ground was too damp for sitting, but if she wedged her back against the structure, she could relax in some measure of comfort. The device she withdrew would do the rest.

She'd recovered the metal disks at different locations. The lower of the two, she suspected had been a sword hilt once, the sigils cast into the bronze were meant to repel evil, and it was for that factor that she'd hoarded the scrap. When a later dig produced the brooch, the idea for her device solidified. She'd bartered for a simple spindle, mounted the repellent disk half an inch below the brooch, which still harbored an attraction enchantment. The flowery carvings on its face led her to suspect a love spell, some trick of a courtly lady long before the Final War.

Love or luxury, the attraction was all that mattered for her purposes. Using opposing magics, one to draw and one to repel, her theory had borne fruit with only a little tweaking. Now she stabbed the long end of the spindle into the soft earth until it stood without tilting. Her fingers swung the lower disk sunwise adding the impetus of her own, faint magic until the metal spun smoothly on its circuit. Then she twirled the brooch in the opposite direction.

Heat burst from the device, warming her hands in an instant. The two spells fought with one another, and Satina smiled at her ingenuity. She never got tired of it, of feeling the heat build. In moments the ground would dry and she could sit and pass the night in comfort without need of a fire.

A twig snapped. Her heart jolted and she looked, instinctively, toward the pocket. She saw nothing but the shimmer, knew exactly how little that meant. Her warmer made no noise, but the energy it expelled could be sensed by the right eyes...maybe the wrong eyes. She listened and moved one hand out very slowly to stop the dual spin.

If someone had opened the pocket, they still may not have spotted her. They might not have sensed the magic unless they'd been looking for it, unless they'd been on her tail the entire time. She peered into the night. She watched the bushes, scanned the empty road and almost missed the shadow slipping toward the stairs from the opposite side.

As it was, her hand grabbed at her cloak only a breath before the figure reached the bottom stair. She listened to its steps, felt their tremble through the stone even as she tried to merge her body with it, to blend into the arch. The vibrations followed the structure to its pinnacle. Satina held her breath, snuggled further into the cloak and watched the open space at the stairway's end.

A pair of boots dropped into view. They were sewn of soft leather, tightly stitched, and painted along both soles with liquid magic. She knew its language. Squinting at the script, she picked out at least one sigil for stealth glowing among the charms for protection, luck and speed. He either practiced the Old Arts, or he'd stolen those boots.

Something about the way his legs swung back and forth, relaxed but speaking of absolute confidence, suggested the former. The owner of these boots would be well-versed, possibly even Gentry or of that blood. Not the last person she wanted to see on a dark night on unfamiliar ground, but a danger all the same.

She didn't dare move. The ensorcelled boots swung, first one leg and then the other. The clouds wandered away from the moon, which lit the road like a silvery ribbon. The invader above her whistled a long trilling note against the silence. It wandered into a soft tune. He knew she was there. The swinging boots, the song—all too casual and meant to tell her exactly how little he cared.

Her skin prickled. She lifted her eyes to the stones over her head, as if she could gaze through them and catch some small advantage. A flare of iridescence shimmered beneath a layer of moss. She squinted at the sigil, followed the lines with her eyes and let her frown deepen. The mark was old, but then moss no doubt took root quickly here.

The tag claimed the ruins for the Starlight gang. Bound by the rune and the magical paint, the affiliation would hold until the sigil wore away or a contrary ward supplanted it. She'd been right all along. Not an inch of their world had remained undivided. Satina turned away from it, away from everything it represented, and a squeak escaped her. A man's face hung over the stair's edge. His eyes sparked like the sigil once, a flare of power, before his thin mouth stretched into a smile, and he winked at her.

Chapter Three

Dread coiled inside her belly. She watched the face pull back, the legs swing over again as he dropped like a leaf to the ground in front of her. Not Shade at least, not that it helped her much. Still, whatever he was, Shade would have been worse. Shade would have meant the end of her.

"Nice night for it."

"Excuse me?" She squinted and made her voice tremble. Her hand slid under a fold of cloak, fumbled for the bag of soft powder.

"Nice night, lovely moon, a little magic." His voice matched his build, wily, lithe and never quite holding completely still. A lightweight cloak swirled at the back of his knees, and though the moonlight beyond made him a swath of shadow, his eyes sparked yellow with the word, magic, and she knew she'd been right about his blood.

"I suppose it would be." How much had he seen? She shrugged and squatted in her original position. Her fingers pried the bag of dust open, and she waited for his next move, mustering her best innocent smile.

"That's a neat trick." He hopped forward and put up both hands, palms facing out. His head tilted to one side, and his features caught an angle of moonlight. Sharp nose, high cheekbones and a wide, thin grin, Gentry if her eyes could be trusted, and not just a trace of it. "How'd you do it?"

"I'm sorry, what?" He hadn't seen the device, only noticed the warmth, possibly smelled the subtle tint of magic in the air beneath the staircase. Hard to deny, that, and she fell back on her only other option. "You mean the heat?" She blinked, widened her eyes to the point that only one with her special talents—with her sort of blood—might achieve. "That's nothing. A toy I purchased in the south."

"Sure it is." His voice rose and fell more than was ordinary. Not unpleasant, but enough to mark his difference. He ducked under the stones and dropped into a pose that mirrored her own. Cocky, not at all concerned with hiding what he was. "May I see it?"

"Why?"

"I have an interest in trinkets."

"And why is that?" The dust felt smooth and warm against her fingertips. It surged with potential, gave her the strength she needed to feign confidence. She stared back at him, waited, and the moment warbled. It could go in either direction, magic in its own right, a crossing place.

He shrugged and laughed higher and shriller than any human should. Satina let out a long breath and nodded. She allowed a smile of her own. He meant her no direct harm. Not tonight at least.

"I own a shop," he said. "Not far from here. You might say trinkets like the one you're hiding in that lovely cloak are my specialty."

"Then there's a village nearby?"

"Not much of a walk, even."

"Starlight?" She pointed to the sigil with the hand not buried in her dust. His face shifted, followed the gesture, and he cracked a wider grin.

"Not much use for either here."

"And yet, the tag."

"Maybe it's old."

"Maybe."

They stared again. She found him charming, in a fashion. He was quick to smile and unabashed to the point of brazenness in his refusal to be ordinary. Yet his dramatics hid a sharper edge. He had an aura of danger. It flared every time his eyes shifted.

In the distance, the soft rhythm of feet squelched against the muddy road. Someone trod that ribbon path, and at this hour, she guessed they had a good reason to be out. The stranger in her shelter didn't look, but his cheek twitched, and his smile curved at a sharper angle.

"You'll have to excuse me, I'm afraid."

"Oh?"

"A little business to attend to."

"For the shop?"

"Perhaps." He jumped backwards, straightening and landing on his feet in a patch of moonlight. "Come to town, my dear. The place is impossible to miss."

"I just might do that."

"You can show me that trinket."

He knew more than she would have liked. His voice pegged her lie. It said he knew exactly what she was. Satina smiled and shrugged. The squishy steps grew louder. The stranger bowed, swirled his cape and tilted his head, eyes flashing one last time before he scampered toward the road. If her presence gave him any pause, he didn't show it.

He reached the roadside and hesitated. His head turned left and right and then he leapt into the air, landing on a boulder that stood a few feet higher than the rest. He perched there, posing, if she'd judged him correctly. The moonlight outlined his figure, the cape swirled, and his eyes flashed once in her direction before his business came shuffling around the bend.

A young boy. Satina frowned and leaned a little forward. Not her matter, whatever he was up to. Not at all. She sniffed and pulled her fingers from her powder, brushing them together to dislodge as much as possible back into the pouch. No good to waste it here. Not with a whole moon cycle ahead.

The boy stopped in the middle of the road. He wore coarse clothing, a hood but no cloak, and shoes that hadn't been built to weather mud like that. She judged him to be somewhere near his eleventh or twelfth year and very nervous. He turned and took a step toward the stairway. The stranger stood abruptly. Satina heard the soft cadence of his speech, but the words drowned in the boy's squeal of alarm. The child staggered back into the road and wobbled, nearly sat in the mud when the man jumped down from his rock and swirled into another bow.

Showmanship. She had to give him that much, though the situation made her fingers twitch toward her dust again. The conversation happened in whispers, but she knew the score. She knew, when the boy handed over a sack of something, what her stranger was. A Skinner, and one with Gentry blood. He offered the boy his prize, a small object, possibly a book, and then he sprang back to his rock, bowing low before leaping into the trees and out of sight.

Damn. Satina cursed her luck and Skinners everywhere. She watched the boy and told herself to stay out of it. She didn't need trouble, didn't need a reputation so quickly. The pocket had only just landed her here. Maybe just for this reason. She frowned and scanned the tree line. He wouldn't have gone far unless that sack held something particularly valuable or dangerous. No. She knew a thing or two about Skinners. He'd want to watch and see his handiwork unfold.

As if on cue, the boy howled. Satina closed her eyes and counted. Not her business. Not so soon. She hadn't even found a place to settle. But the bawling from the road wormed under her skin. The child was in distress. She peeked out from under her arch and let out a very long exhale. Her dust would never last the whole moon, not at this rate. Not with a Skinner handy.

She didn't really even need to use it. She could just march out there and fix things. Still, her hand slid to the pouch again. A smile found her lips, and her eyes flashed. Her fingers slid back into the powder. The Skinner wasn't the only one who could put on a show.

Satina dug into the silky contents, her fingers pulsing with the dust's power. She drew them out, took a breath to watch them shimmer even in the deep shadows under the ruin. Then she ran them through her hair, wiped a smear along the collar of her cloak and patted a touch at each invisible symbol stitched into the hem. Silence. Safety. Grace. The cloak had more of magic to it in embroidery than a trace of dust, but the powder made it glow, let ordinary eyes see what ordinarily was hidden.

If the Skinner still hid inside the trees, he gave no hint. No eyes flashed in her direction when she slid into the open. She believed he was there, just the same. Satina imagined him slunk low in the shadows, very interested in what she might do next. She tiptoed closer to the ribbon road, running both hands down the sides of her gown, over her waist and hips. The gesture left a glowing accent under the cover of her cloak.

She inhaled and closed her eyes, found her center of power and pulled at the tiny spark that was her blood right. It responded with a flood of warmth. Her fingers tingled. Satina let the power build. She nudged it into the symbols, into the powder and felt her body flare with magic. The sobbing from the roadway stopped. Her cue. She threw her arms wide and spun.

The dust lit her like a candle. She sparkled, a swirl of power and fabric and long, silvery hair. Her arms lifted over head, undulating and enhancing the spin. When she stopped, they drifted down and threw her cloak back over her shoulders. The boy in the road gaped at her.

His face streaked where his tears had cleaned away a layer of grime. His wide eyes were still shot with red, and he sniffled loudly and held up his hands. They were stuck fast to the Skinner's trap.

"What is that thing?" The trouble he grasped between his palms didn't look like much, a thin box, not a treasure worth risking a midnight encounter with a Skinner for.

"Don't hurt me." His lower lip trembled.

"Why would I do that?"

"You're magic." He labeled the obvious. "Like him."

"Maybe not so like him as you think."

He didn't believe her. She'd grown used to that, the taint of suspicion, the nervousness. He'd take a little convincing—most of them did.

"What is that thing?"

"It's supposed to be a game." He held it up to the wan light and sniffed again. "I can't let go of it!"

"And I suppose you paid him for it?" He only nodded and trembled, hands caught fast in the Skinner's binding spell. "I hope it wasn't too much."

"Everyone in town has one."

"A booby-trapped box?"

"No."

"I didn't think so." She made her sigh heavy enough to carry as far as the woods. "Well, let me see what I can do."

"Y—you're going to help me?"

"If you wish it."

"I don't have any more money."

Satina scowled hard enough the boy stepped back. She softened quickly, waved him forward and surveyed the damage. The sigil was a simple thing to undo. The Skinner had dusted the rim with something, not the generic stuff. She leaned close and sniffed it.

"Can you make it stop?"

"Yes."

"My dad could pay you." She heard the fear in his words. No doubt his father didn't know about tonight's transaction.

"There's no charge." She ran her finger over the charm and felt for the release. At least, he hadn't meant to hurt the boy, not in any real way.

"Why?"

"Why what?" A surge of power and the binding fell apart—the box became a normal thing again. The boy dropped it in the mud, then bent as if to retrieve it. "Best to leave it alone," she warned. Who knew what secondary spells it hid?

"I know what you are," the boy whispered.

Satina ignored him. Her plans had not included this, but she'd adapt. She smiled, held one finger to her lips. It still glowed enough to make his eyes stretch again. "Best be heading home, now."

He snatched at the suggestion and took off running.

She waited till he'd scrambled out of sight before turning toward the woods. No Skinner. No flashing glance. The trap still lay in the rut, harmless if she could trust her sight. The boy who'd wanted it enough to risk a Skinner's bargain left it behind without a glance back. Satina bent and lifted it. He'd pegged her as easily as the Skinner had.

Granter.

Her story would reach the village long before she did.

Chapter Four

At least she knew which way to go. The morning held a promise of heat that had already dried the road ruts into hard ridges. Her cloak would be a burden long before noon, but now, as the sun whispered through a soft sheen of cloud cover, she kept it on, only folding the wool back to hang behind her shoulders.

The boy had come from this direction, had darted away toward home in this direction. He had her secret, and she didn't doubt he meant to spread it, had probably spread it already. If she'd a brain in her head, she'd be walking the other way, even if the tag had been a Starlight mark.

Satina squinted at the horizon. The road bent yet again, but the trees already parted to display the fields that would ring the town with crops. Like the Skinner, she had no use for either gang. She preferred no affiliation. She had her own reasons to avoid the Shades, and she was clever enough to know that hiding among Starlights threw her in the path of danger. Where else would the rival gang search for her?

Still, she followed the boy's path toward a village where the Skinner kept his shop. How that worked, she couldn't guess. A town full of victims and no one had lynched the man? How had he done it, settled in one place? A Skinner of all people. He had that charm about him, she supposed, the grace of a dancer, though she doubted that would get him far with your ordinary townsperson.

Maybe it wasn't an ordinary town.

She lifted her chin, shooed away an early midge and tramped through the ruts toward the rustle of wheat. The crops fanned out to either side of the road. Satina marched between them. Wheat, corn, potatoes—beyond these a few lumpy pastures with sheep or goats, even one fat cow. You could read a town by the things it grew. There would be families here, close-knit groups and neighbor's well-versed in one another's business.

There'd be a chapel, an inn that was friendly enough to welcome travelers, but not enough to encourage them to stay. There'd be a blacksmith, possibly a weaver. She'd seen her share of farming towns, of goats and even of fat cows to know this one. Any way she looked at it, her Skinner didn't fit the picture.

The stables backed the last pasture. Beyond them, the village proper clustered. The steeple of a crisp, white chapel peered over the lower roofs, confirming her suspicion at the same time it passed silent judgment on all her kind.

How did a Skinner fit in here? How did he stick a boy's hands fast to a box and not incite an angry mob? Had he watched her from the shadows last night?

"Beg pardon, please." A soft voice spoke from the stables' side of the road. "A moment, Granter."

Satina stilled her feet and peered between the railings. A swish of skirts appeared from inside the shed. A stout woman crossed the paddock, carrying a bundle wrapped in thin cloth. She tried to smile. Her eyes crinkled at the corners for a moment before the fear wiped her face back to neutral. Her hands shook when she held the parcel out, but her voice was clearer, bolstered by a moment of bravado.

"My son told me what you done." She thrust the fabric over the fence. "Breakfast."

"Thank you." Perhaps she should argue. The woman's gratitude warred with her distaste for magic kind, making her face a battleground of conflicting emotions. The food inside the cloth smelled fresh, however, and Satina's stomach insisted it was fair payment for helping the boy.

The woman shuffled away as soon as she took the parcel. She wore coarse homespun skirts over a pale chemise. Her dark hair bunched in a knot at the back of her head, held by a long pin. Satina squinted at it, shifted visions, and saw the sigils painted on the wood. Interesting. She examined the stable more closely. A horseshoe over each paddock bore protective marks, painted in magical ink. She could guess whose hand had drawn them.

And yet, he'd tricked the boy.

She passed the stable and the street smoothed. Satina turned her shifted vision on the town. Like all the other towns, she saw the faces peeking, the curtains shifting and the heads ducking back behind a door or corner. Unlike other towns, she saw the traces of her Skinner's work here. The fountain in the town square misted through a metal grate, twisting with ornate patterns that screamed Old Magic. In addition to whatever properties the relic held, the Skinner's paint had added health and prosperity for the entire town.

He'd gone and made himself indispensable.

She found the inn, exactly as expected, the blacksmith's opposite the stables, but no weaver she could see. The town was small and its tidy buildings had survived the years amazingly well. Whether due to the charms or the townsfolk's diligent attention, she couldn't guess. Either way the boards had held, the stones still rested tightly together, and the thatch—well, the thatch looked fresh. She'd give the villagers credit there.

The Skinner's shop waited beyond the fountain. His sign glowed with wards and delicate sigils. One huge window displayed a collection of pots and bags, tools, axes and blades. They all bore his marks, scribbled on every surface in dust-infused paint. Unlike the ones on his boots, these sigils actually held color, had been mixed into a paint that even mortal eyes could see. Satina guessed it made for better business. If his clientele couldn't see the marks he made, he'd have a harder time convincing them to hand over their money.

Clever? Perhaps. Dangerous? Oh so very much so. One faulty charm could bring the wrath of an entire village. How much more so when the culprit is a Skinner who practices his shady trade right alongside the benevolent one? He was mad as hell to try this.

She circled the water and approached his door. Why put it off? She fancied staying here awhile, and his reaction would make or break that plan. She didn't need another enemy of any kind. Bells jingled at her entrance. The shop's interior glowed so brightly with magic marks that any mundane illumination faded from her notice. Shelves lined the walls, ran a straight line down the center and made an aisle directly from the doorway to the long counter at the rear.

The rafters hung with leather pouches, water skins and bits of harness. The shelves overflowed with trinkets, jewelry, even clothing all magicked for some lucky future owner. Did anything in the town not rely upon the man and his painted sigils?

"Good morning, my dear." The Skinner leaned against the counter, half hidden and smiling as if she were expected. "Or should I say, Goodmother?"

Satina stiffened. His grin stretched at the reaction. He'd hit his mark, and it amused him.

"You've come to show me your little trinket?"

"No."

"What a shame." His smile didn't falter, but his eyes flashed. He waved one arm to indicate his products. "Perhaps you'd like to look around?"

"I have something to discuss." She took the main aisle forward, straight to the back counter and the man who waited with one slender eyebrow lifted. Her hand snagged the edge of her cloak and she pulled the fabric forward and reached into the inside pocket, pulling out the thin box. "Perhaps you recognize it."

"Oh yes." He watched her place the booby trap on the counter and nodded. "I've seen those. The children in town love them."

"Do they?" She tried to sound accusing, but he didn't even flinch. "I can't imagine why."

"I'll show you." He plucked it up without hesitation and ran a finger over the top in a caress that mimicked the sigil she'd erased. She heard him chuckle softly, and then he flipped the box around and it sprang open. "It's a game, you see."

With the lip popped, the device lay exposed. A single divot in the wood bore a small dial, an arrow hovered on a wire at its center. The Skinner gave the box a gentle shake, and the arrow spun, faster and faster as he moved the case forward and back. Each time the dial circled, it advanced a number inset just to the left of the spinner. Fancy. She'd seen similar mechanisms in the port towns to the south, but never so tiny nor used for entertainment.

"They like to see who can keep it going longest," he said. "Quite the desirable item. How much?"

"Excuse me?"

"I'll give you two crowns for it. Not a hair more."

"You want to buy this?"

"Of course. They're not easy to come by, quite rare in fact. I made this particular one myself."

"You gave this to a boy in the road last night."

"Yes, though I must say you've removed the best part." He flicked his wrist and the box closed again. "Were I less generous, I'd deduct the cost of wasted dust from my offer."

"Wasted...you..." Satina choked back her accusation.

"Yes?" One of his brows lifted.

"Three crowns."

His eyes locked onto hers. Sea green, like the bay to the south where the ships unload relics from the further reaches. Satina held her breath without meaning to. She kept her eyes on his, but her hands trembled. Those she stuffed into the folds of her cloak.

His head tilted. His lips stretched. They tilted up at the corner. She twisted her fingers into the wool and smiled back.

The bells jangled again. Boots clunked onto his floorboards, and the Skinner dropped his gaze to the counter. His posture shifted, folding in and curling so that he looked, almost intentionally, submissive.

A gruff voice rumbled behind her. "Keep your hands in your pockets."

She spun to face the intruder. Her hands slipped immediately from the cloak into the open, but the man had not been chastising her. His scowl was fixed on the girl at his side, and each word settled on her narrow shoulders like a weight. She curled deeper than the Skinner had, no doubt, had been the object of the brute's anger far more often.

"And stay by the door," he finished and then forgot her, turning toward the counter with a blank expression. Only the space between his heavy eyebrows tightened when he spotted Satina. His eyes lingered on her a second before his full attention settled on the shop owner. "Is it ready?" He barked the question, spared no effort on a greeting.

"Yes." The Skinner shuffled from the counter. He vanished through a door in the back wall. The customer grunted and looked at her again.

"You're the Granter, then?"

"Pardon?"

"Nothing." He shrugged and leaned one elbow against the counter. It creaked in complaint.

She stepped away, wandered between the shelving and put a little space between them. The girl obeyed his orders. She pressed tightly against the shop's door. Her long braids trailed over her shoulders and her face had the same broad cheeks as the man, her father no doubt. The girl darted looks in his direction. Her hands remained glued in her pockets as instructed. Satina caught their movement, though, as if the girl fiddled with something.

The dark eyes turned in her direction then slipped away. Satina waited. She admired a tray of metal cuffs and watched the girl from the corner of her eye. When the sullen gaze shifted in her direction again, she smiled and earned the poor thing's grin in return.

"Maera!" The man's voice boomed from the aisle. His wide shoulders passed Satina's shelf. "We're leaving."

She waited for them to go before sidestepping back toward the counter. The Skinner didn't look up. He had a glass bottle out and dipped a delicate brush into sparkling, blue paint. A pair of leather gloves lay beside it, sigils half-painted.

"Three crowns, is it?" He spoke without looking at her.

"I think two is fair."

"You're not very good at this." His voice warmed a little, but still held a flat edge.

"Two and a half?"

"Fair enough." He painted the rest of his squiggle and let one side of his mouth bend into a smile. "Two and a half."

He dropped his brush back into the paint and looked at her directly for the first time since his surly customer had interrupted them. Something lingered in his expression that she couldn't quite place. He smiled, but the flare was gone. He reached under the counter and came up with a small stack of coins.

"I'd like to trade as well," Satina lowered her voice. She held her hand out for the money, but with her ring finger folded tightly to her palm. His eyes widened for a second. He shook his head.

"You have something else to sell?"

"No." She held the gesture and waited.

The Skinner placed her money into her hand. His eyes darted to the doorway and back. "One moment."

"Of course." She waited while he moved to the door and tugged at a thin string. It flipped a panel above the door, labeling the shop closed for business. He locked the door. Satina waited for him to return. Her eyes drifted to the one symbol in the shop that wasn't painted in magical ink. This one had no need for dust, and any eyes could see it. The black symbol marked the wall directly above the counter. It looked like charcoal, faded and unimportant, resembling a dog's head—or a wolf's. It meant he sold more than what the shelves held, but she doubted anyone else in town would know that.

"Now, my dear." The Skinner's eyes were bright again. His smile relaxed. He returned fully to his exaggerated sense of self. "What is it that you have to trade?"

"You have raw dust?"

"I might." He played coy, winked at her and let his eyes dance. "I have some lovely ink." He barely moved and a second bottle sat beside the first. "Very handy."

"I've noticed. They know about your items' special attributes?"

"But of course."

"And about your evening activities?"

"I believe you said trade."

"Do you have dust or not?"

"I do." He reached below his counter again, but hesitated before showing his hand. "And what do you have?"

"Your boots need repainting." She pulled her largest pouch free from her belt and set it on the counter. The Skinner raised a brow and waited. "The symbols have rubbed off a bit."

"And here I just thought I was slipping."

"You should stitch them." She fumbled inside the bag, found her smallest spool, the one she'd already pulled from. When she set it on the counter, he squinted at the thread and sniffed.

"I can dust my own thread. It takes more time and wears off just as quickly as the ink."

"It's not dusted."

He laughed, but sobered when she didn't join him. Her turn to be surprising. The Skinner cleared his throat. His eyes flashed. "What is it?"

"Thistledown."

He bent close and inspected the thread, pulling the loose end through his fingers and then checking them for dust. He sniffed it, and his eyes stretched. "Well, my dear." He tried to hide it, but she'd impressed him. "Tell me, where did you possibly find this?"

"I spun it."

"Where does it grow?"

"Oh I don't think so." She placed one hand atop the spool and pinned it to the counter. "If I told a soul where the pocket was, how long would there be thistledown growing?"

"A trade, perhaps?"

"I think not."

"Maybe not today." He laughed again. This time he brought the tray of packets up from behind the counter. "But you're not the only one with secrets. I'll think of something, I'm sure."

"Just the dust today." She could already smell its magic.

"I can imagine." He changed tactics, winking at her and shifting back to playful. "You put on quite the show last night."

She looked down, reached for the tray of packets and did her best not to rise to his taunt. "How much for the spool?"

"A full packet."

"Three." Thistledown didn't grow in many pockets. Where it did, you'd be lucky to harvest enough for a fraction of what she offered him.

"Perhaps, two?"

"Perhaps three."

He handed over the packets less than gently, but his eyes kept darting to the spool. He'd paid a fair price, and they both knew it. "And you're in town for how long?"

"I've little clue myself."

"Hmm." He tinkered with the packets in his tray, lining them in tidy rows before stuffing the array back into hiding. "A word of advice if you do remain."

"Yes?"

"When the blacksmith was here..." He didn't look up, had rolled into the humble shopkeeper routine again. For her benefit? Or as an example? "You've a defiant streak, my dear. It will get you into trouble eventually." He looked up suddenly and locked his gaze on hers again. The flare shimmered between them, and his smile returned. "Or perhaps it already has."

Satina cursed her transparency. Her hands shook again, and she stuffed them under her wool cover, lifted her chin and gave him a cooler smile. She didn't need his warnings. Who was he to give them? "You walk a very fine line yourself, Skinner."

"My name is Marten."

"Thank you for the advice, Marten." She turned and faced the doorway, took a step away when he continued.

"You didn't give me yours."

"No, I didn't." She made the door, unlocked it and pulled it open.

"The boy was a thief."

Satina froze. "I didn't ask about him." Did it matter? Her stomach fluttered, said yes it did.

"No." Marten whispered, but his words reached the exit easily enough. "No, you didn't."

Chapter Five

Satina sat on the fountain and unfolded the cloth parcel. She looked out toward the stables, kept her back facing his shop and let the whisper of the water block out the echo of his scolding. The boy was a thief. Did she believe that? She stared at the meal she'd been given and tried to decide.

A small cake of goat cheese, coarse bread and a handful of berries—the stable woman had given her a better breakfast than she'd enjoyed in days. She might have found the berries, but the cheese and bread required barter. She nibbled them alternately while the town woke.

The children appeared first. Dirty faces peered at her from behind a cluster of barrels, a few braver groups huddled on the steps of the inn. They had more than one of Marten's games, and fought for turns to shake the little boxes. Their mothers came next, drifting between the buildings and casting their cool looks in her direction before clustering to whisper. The men would be long at their tasks already, hard at work if the upkeep of the buildings and streets were any indication.

It was the nicest town she'd seen since the ports.

The southern women had given her the same looks, but the buildings there had been marked on nearly every surface with a Shade emblem. What the boats brought funded the gang's activities far and wide, and the market, for all its bounty, had equally remarkable taxes. The market was where she'd met the sailor and where her trouble had started.

The sun broke through the cloud cover in the middle of her meal. The women faded into the buildings, and a few of the braver children moved their games out into the open. One boy darted directly in front of her after a stray cat that didn't appreciate the attention one hissing bit.

Satina finished. She folded the cloth neatly—it was finely woven—and tucked it into a cloak pocket. Then she turned to the inn. Four nights she'd camped on the road. She needed more than a puddle to wash in, and the idea of a real bed made her spine tingle. Would they let her get a room? She squinted at the edifice and hoped a town that allowed someone like Marten to own a store, to take up permanent residence might let her buy a night's lodging. She'd helped one boy already, though her breakfast may very well be as much gratitude as she'd earn for that. Still, her blood had given her a friendly appearance.

Her face showed less age than she carried. Her soft features put the weary at ease. The same blood would require two days of walking to keep the cheese and bread from taking permanent residence at her waistline. It was a fair trade-off, she supposed, for smooth skin, gentle eyes and silvery hair that grew as swiftly as a weed.

She stepped away from the fountain, but the tramping of many boots echoed from the street beside the inn. The children all froze in place. Even the cat paused. Then all at once they moved again, slipping into alleys and vanishing in the space of a breath. The steps rang closer, and Satina scrambled back around the fountain away from the sound. Her hand slid into her dust bag, and her fingers threaded through the powder.

A group marched into the square. The cat howled in the distance, a faint sound between the patter of blue boots against the street—and every last one of them wore blue boots. The Starlights staggered into the middle of town, stopped and settled into place. The few women in the gang hung from their men, dressed in tattered skirts, layered scarves, and puffy, blue blouses. The guards fanned out to stand at the head of each side street. They blocked all roads leading from the square, trapped Satina effectively beside the fountain.

Their leader waved his arm like a flag, this way and that, giving silent orders. He stood as tall as the blacksmith had, at least, though he was fair and had less bulk to him. He wore leather leggings, a white tunic and the high, blue boots that labeled his affiliation. Around his neck, a long chain hung, and on this dangled a heavy metal disk carved with the starburst symbol of the gang. He brushed one hand through sandy hair and turned abruptly to fix her in his sight.

Her fingers swirled. A little flare might distract one guard enough to let her slip away. But she stood opposite the road that led to her pocket, and what might lay in the direction she'd be forced to flee was a mystery. They'd run her down in seconds.

The leader's eyes narrowed. He took a step toward the fountain. Satina pinched a little dust between her fingertips.

A hand landed on her elbow. The Skinner's voice spoke at her shoulder, overly loud and making little sense. "That's enough of a break," he scolded. "Back to work if you don't want docked for wasting time."

"I—I was just..."

He tugged her backwards. She stumbled, but it only helped their act. The gang leader dismissed them from immediate concern, but Satina saw his eyes before he turned away. Marten may have saved her for the moment, but she'd garnered herself far more attention than she needed. She let him steer her back inside his shop, waited until he'd shut the door before breathing again.

"Thank you."

"What are they doing here?" He turned on her, eyes flashing with more than his blood. "Are they looking for you?"

"No. Not them."

"Shades?" He rolled his eyes and looked at her like he'd caught her stealing. "Either one is bad news."

"I know."

"Come on, then." His hand remained on her elbow, but this time he pushed her in front, down the long aisle and around behind the counter. "If you try to leave town now, they'll be all over you."

"Do you think they're staying?"

"I'm hoping not." He let go of her long enough to open the door he'd vanished through when helping the blacksmith. His grin held little mirth behind it. It oozed disdain. "If they move on, you'll be able to slip away at your leisure."

"And if they stay?"

He shrugged and pushed her into the back room. More shelves ringed in a little desk. These held bits of things unmade or in need of repair. Marten shoved her through too fast for an inspection. Another door stood at the back wall. This one would lead outside.

"If they stay, you'll just have to lay low, won't you?"

"Where?" Her fear finally broke through. It set her hands shaking, and she found herself leaning closer to him than she should have. She could feel the warmth of his breath near her shoulder.

"What did you get yourself into?"

"It wasn't them."

"Does it really matter?"

"No." She closed her eyes and let a wave of nausea pass. The whole world belonged to one or the other. Where did she have to go?

"You know where the blacksmith's is?"

"Across from the stables?"

"Yes." She pressed her eyes tight and shook her head. That was back the way she'd come, back through the square full of Starlights.

"Don't panic." He shook her less than gently, waited till she opened her eyes again. "Listen to me. You go out this door and circle around. Use the alleys. Use that lovely cloak. Use the dust if you have to. Just go quietly and get to the blacksmith's."

"Why there?" She remembered the hulking man, the child who was too afraid to move.

"Behind that building is a white fence." He spoke quickly, and his eyes locked her in a trance. He put power to the words, so that she couldn't have lost them if she'd wanted to. "Follow that fence and you'll end up at a cottage. It's back from the road a ways. Tell the woman there I sent you." He swallowed, and his eyes darted back the way they'd come. "Tell her the Skinner sent you. She's an herbalist, has an extra room she rents from time to time. If you're lucky you can trade for it. She's not blooded, but she won't mind yours."

"Why are you helping me?" She choked it out.

Marten pulled her closer. The hand on her elbow squeezed tighter and his free one lifted to her chin. He raised her face and looked directly into her eyes.

"Why?" She held her breath, and the Skinner leaned in. His eyes sparked and he said a single word.

"Thistledown." His grin stretched, and he pushed her out the door into the alley. He closed it before she'd caught her balance. She bit her lip and glared at it.

The alley smelled of rotten wood. The rear of the buildings had not received the same careful maintenance. What efforts the people could muster had been reserved for an appearance of thriving, prosperous village. A crumbling stone foundation criss-crossed the alley, a snake from the past reminding the upstart town that something else had thrived here before it—that nothing lasts forever. Satina stepped over and around the stones. She slunk right, toward the next street, stirring her dust with one finger.

She stroked the powder over the symbols on her cloak, over Silence and Speed. They glowed, but not enough in daylight to attract mundane eyes. A Starlight guard manned the street. He stood at the edge of the square with his back facing her and his arms crossed in front. She peeked, ducked back, peeked again and then darted across to the next alley. One down. One more to cross and she'd be heading away from the square, back toward the edge of town and the blacksmith's domain.

This stretch had less foundation rubble, but more trash. The buildings seemed to lean together overhead, and the water barrel she passed reflected more gutter than sky. Crates waited in piles behind the next shop. Satina paused beside them, tucked in against the building and calmed her nerves. Above her head, a cat hissed. He swatted one gray paw over the box lip and growled for her to be moving off.

Satina stepped away again, had just reached the next jut of old foundation when the air around her spoke. He used something, a spell to make him heard much farther than his voice would warrant. Whatever magic backed his speech, she heard him as if he were standing in the alley. She guessed, the entire town would hear.

"People of Westwood!" He'd taken a moment to learn the town's name, more than she had done, but then, she hadn't come to claim it either. "I am Vane, and this is your lucky day." Satina cringed and looked back the way she'd come. Did Marten think, for one second, that the town was lucky? Vane continued, and she moved again, using the cover of his announcement to mask her footsteps. She'd heard it all before anyway.

By the time she reached the next cross street, Vane was calling for the town officials to join him in the square. He declared Westwood to be under his protection and suggested a celebration in honor of the occasion. It was a fancy way of letting the townspeople know they were about to be pillaged, but at least it wasn't a hostile take-over. At least it wasn't a gang war. She'd seen one of those in the south and had barely slipped out of that particular port town with her life. If there hadn't been a pocket just inside the first fields, she'd be floating in the bay somewhere, picked clean by the tiny silver fish that liked to hover near the surface around the big boats.

Satina crossed the street in a flash, leapt the next pile of stones and broke into a trot away from the square and the message that still blared unnaturally loud, as if Vane were standing at her shoulder.

"A future partnership to benefit all parties," he went on.

A fairly handy spell, that voice stretcher. She tried to imagine how he'd done it, ducked a low-strung laundry wire and ran parallel to the main street at a full tilt now. Vane had everyone's attention. She had her sigils and her dust, and the Skinner had...well, he had saved her skin.

Thistledown. She'd have to introduce him to Henry. She groaned too loudly and then clapped a hand over her mouth.

Thankfully, Vane was still speaking from the square. Now, however, he was having a conversation with someone who didn't have the benefit of his magical extension. "Good for all concerned...yes. I'm sure you have..."

She scooted past another water barrel into a narrower and darker stretch where the buildings seemed to reach out for one another and the gutters actually blocked out the sky in places. The way ended abruptly, facing directly into the smithy.

The shed used one of the old foundations, maybe even the original blacksmith's. The walls and slanting ceiling could have been fences once. The wood warped and showed a wisp of moss here and there. Satina risked peeking out to survey her route. To the right, a dirt track ran straight to the main road where she'd first entered the town. Left, it narrowed and wound off toward a stretch of pastures. She could see the cottony backs of sheep in the distance.

As promised, a white fence began where the smithy ended. It stuck out beside the dilapidated shed, freshly painted, neatly aligned and glowing every two sections with a painted sigil Satina read as "assistance."

Vane's voice no longer rambled in her ear. He'd finished the speech. Now, his gang would be settling in, invading shops and making themselves at home. She thought of the Skinner and cringed. His lovely shelves, all his handiwork on the open boards where the Starlights would find them irresistible. She hoped he'd stashed his powder, the little bottles of ink and her thistledown. She hoped he didn't struggle.

Starlight or Shade, what did it matter?

She cast back a push of her own magic, a wisp of power and a thought for his safety. Not much protection and the afterthought of it shamed her. She could have touched his back door, made the spell stick directly then. He'd wasted his time getting her away.

She imagined a tight knot, sent it flying back as well and hoped her late effort at least might help. The fence beckoned, and with Vane silent, the townspeople would creep out again soon. As she darted over the dirt path, Satina saw them already. The girl from Marten's shop hid in the back of her father's shed. Her eyes followed Satina, and her mouth pulled tight. She made no noise, however, and when a woman joined her through a side door, Satina only smiled and hurried her feet. She didn't fancy seeing the father again.

Her feet scuttled down the fence line. She held both sides of her cloak in hands that stroked the symbols. Speed. Silence. Stealth. A narrow strip of weeds lay behind the smithy, and beyond that, a thin walk parted from the main road and wandered through waist-high grasses to a tiny cottage. Satina veered up this, and the instant the grasses rose at her sides, her breathing settled. Her muscles relaxed and her feet slowed to a gentle stroll.

Wildflowers and herbs hid between the blades, scattered perhaps by intention to give off a thick aroma that calmed the nerves and, she suspected, dulled the reflexes. The Skinner's herbalist might not be blooded, but she had a craft of her own at her disposal, and not an insubstantial defense. She tried not to inhale too deeply and followed the path closer to the woman's home.

If it hadn't stood through the Old Kingdoms, someone had taken pains to make it look as if it had. The thatch sagged and matted at the center. New tufts poked out here and there over the rough walls. One square window beside the wooden door bore four perfect panes of real glass. Gardens ringed the building, packed with flowering plants. A water spigot stood beside a bucket, and a handful of bright-eyed statuary peered out between the plantings.

Satina saw at least one stone imp among the peonies. Pointy ears, gray skin, a spark in the eye—she couldn't help the smile as she rapped gently on the front door and scowled at the little fiend. "Whatchoowant?"

"Ah!" She leapt back, heart rattling in her chest. A raisin face squinted at her from the cracked door. It blinked and then the gap narrowed again. "Wait! Mar—the Skinner sent me."

"Eh." The woman snorted. "Bastard." The door thumped shut.

"But." Satina stared at it. That hadn't exactly gone as she'd expected. She chewed her lower lip and tapped one toe against the stone at the base of the door. He'd convinced her that the woman would help, but then, Skinners didn't have a reputation for trustworthiness. "Hello?" She hollered at the door anyway. It was this or the woods, and her tired legs demanded at least one more try. "You have a room to rent?"

Nothing. She sighed and felt her shoulders grow heavy. Another walk, a night on the ground, probably for the best if the Starlights had taken the town. She turned back to the field and caught movement at the window. A curtain fell back into place. The door creaked again.

"You can pay?" The voice rustled like dry leaves.

"Yes. Gold or trade." She turned with soft feet, made no abrupt motion. "Or whatever you might need." Her fingers brushed against the sigils of her cloak, held just enough powder that the woman might be able to see the flash. If she spent enough time around their kind, if she knew anything of magic at all.

The eyes were too squinted naturally for Satina to be certain if they narrowed, but she thought the tone of the voice shifted. "Come in and we'll see."

She vanished, but the door remained ajar and Satina slipped through it into a tidy living space. The scent of herbs drying filled the room, making breathing an effort. Bundles of foliage hung like mummified bats from rafters only a few feet above her head.

"Let's see then," the woman croaked, coughed and then nodded. She waved her arms in an indecipherable gesture. "Off with that fancy cloak."

Satina undid the clasp and slid the garment off her shoulders. She folded the thick wool and draped it over her arm. The old woman waddled in a circle around her. Her cottage had a narrow alcove where someone had fastened half a table to one wall, stuffed two stools up beside it so close that you could just slip past them to get to the shelves and cupboards. She left this and sidled past a curtained doorway into the larger square that housed a sleeping mat piled with blankets and the building's best feature, a huge stone hearth complete with a fat cauldron dangling over the low fire.

She lifted a loose strand of Satina's hair and sniffed it. Despite her best efforts at twisting the silver length into a knot, a few strands always worked free. The woman nodded and reached a bony finger out to poke at her just below the ribs. Satina felt the blush creep over her cheeks. Her gown hugged the curve of her waist a tad tightly, perhaps.

"Goodmother," the woman pinned her blood. She sniffed, and her lips parted into a wide smile that showed a row of poorly maintained teeth.

"A few generations back." Satina swallowed the urge to defend her midsection. Who knew? Underneath the layers of heavy scarves the old woman might boast a willowy, girlish figure. Aside from the wrinkled face and a few stray curls of ghost white, you couldn't see much of her.

"Blooded." The hunched and bundled form completed the circuit. She stood in front of the table and let her eyes slide from the door to Satina. "But what can you do?"

"Enough to get by."

A cackle exploded from the squished-up lips. A pair of icy-blue eyes widened, and the rest of the woman's face relaxed into a smoother state. She shook herself from head to toe and unfolded into something less desiccated, though still far into her advanced years.

"Illusion," Satina whispered.

"Enough to get by." The woman mocked her. Her voice flowed like water, far clearer now the veil of magic had dropped. "So you need a place to hide."

She turned back to the table, waving an arm to indicate the stools. Something flashed as she moved, a scrap of silvered glass hung at her neck, peeked out from below the shawls. Reflective. Possible a mirror shard. It would explain the trick with her appearance, but whose hand had fashioned it? "And the Skinner sent you. That's a story in itself, I suspect."

"A group of Starlights are in town."

"And you're a Shade?" She pulled a stool out and slid onto it, propping gnarled elbows on the table and waiting for Satina's answer with her lips pursed.

"I'm not either."

"Good. Sit down." She didn't move from her scrutiny until Satina had laid her cloak across her lap and settled on the other stool. "You know herbs?"

"Some." Not as many as her host no doubt, but enough for a simple healing or protection bundle.

"Sigils, I see."

"Yes." She'd met few who could match her knowledge there. Though just looking around town, she might like to try her hand against Marten some time. Maybe just share a few notes.

"Skinner's never sent anyone before." Now the blue eyes squinted again, reading something her human blood couldn't possible see.

"Hasn't he?"

"Not one. Doesn't like people in general."

She couldn't think of an answer to that, though she felt like the woman waited for one. Why had he helped her then? The thistledown, perhaps. She hesitated to mention that, already owed one person a peek at her private pocket.

"My name is Hadja. The back room is yours. I don't use it. Old bones need the fire." She pointed at the curtain and shrugged. "There's a pan under the bed though. A few coals should keep someone so young warm through the night."

"Thank you."

"I'll put you to work, make no mistake."

"I'm not afraid of work."

"You'll need to give me a name as well, dear. Shouting, 'hey you,' to the field can have all kinds of repercussions."

"Satina. Sorry."

"Satina." Hadja stood up again. "You'd better get settled in. If we've got a gang in town, there'll be work to do sooner than later."

She didn't want to agree, but the woman had the right of it. Instead, she took her direction and stood up, carried her cloak to the curtain and pulled it aside.

"It's about time," Hadja called after her. "That Skinner and all."

"I'm sorry, what is?"

"Ha!" She crossed to the fire and pulled a metal poker from a hook set in the chimney. Poking at the ashes with the tip, she chuckled, and Satina let the curtain drop between them. Still, she heard the muttering woman. The cottage wasn't big enough for her to miss it. "All their blood and they think I'm the one that can't see."

The flames crackled and echoed the old woman's laughter to the sky.

Chapter Six

The cowslip grew in a patch beside the blacksmith's fence. Satina filled the basket Hadja had given her with the herb, concentrating on plucking instead of crushing as the woman demonstrated. The sun slipped past mid-day while she searched for the plants Hadja needed, fetching them in baskets the woman thrust through the doorway and then retrieving an empty one with another order. Now her back warmed under the white shift she'd traded for her traveling gown. The wool cincher grew moist at the small of her back, and her forehead beaded with small droplets.

The room wasn't big enough to warrant this much labor, but the bed had looked perfectly cozy. A pile of quilts and a few coals underneath and Satina could already imagine how well she'd sleep. She plucked and sweated and tried her best not to curse the Skinner for her troubles.

When the basket overflowed with cowslip, she stood and earned a squeak of terror from the girl beside the fence. The blacksmith's daughter, Maera, had wandered through the railings. She squatted against a fencepost, but jumped to her feet when Satina unfolded and peered across the grass tips at her.

Her cheeks had long tear tracks washed clean. Her hands still clutched a familiar, thin box. She blinked red-rimmed eyes, and her mouth opened and closed without sound. She stood almost as tall as Satina, but her cheeks still held the rosy blush of youth underneath the filth.

"Oh." The girl grabbed a handful of skirt with her free hand. She hiked the fabric up and prepared to step back through the fence.

"It's okay." Satina made her voice as friendly as possible. She smiled, and let her goodmother lineage shine fully through. "Stay put. I was just heading back."

"Wait." The girl's shoulders lowered. She watched her feet, shifting her weight back and forth between them. "Is it true what they're saying, that you're a Granter?"

"I've been called worse." She let the basket rest against her hip. "I'm Satina."

"Maera. The blacksmith is my dad. Are you going to stay here?"

"Maybe." At least long enough to get a night's sleep. If the Starlights moved on, maybe longer wouldn't be so bad. She did owe Marten a peek at the thistledown. "For a little while."

"Are the Starlights after you?" Her eyes darted back toward the shed.

Not good. If the town blamed her arrival for the gang's, they'd toss her to the wolves for certain. "I can't imagine why they would be. No."

"They're all staying at the inn." Maera's eyes stretched wide. "I don't think they even have enough rooms."

"Well then, maybe they won't stay long." And maybe she wouldn't either.

"Do you grant wishes?" Maera's eyes went wide and glossy. She swished her skirts and held the Skinner's toy in front of her chest. Old enough for that then, not quite a child.

"I do what I can to help," Satina answered.

"I—"

Someone shouted from the road. Satina ducked back into the grass without thinking. Maera had done the same. The girl huddled at the base of the fencepost, but whatever she saw in front of her father's shop had her scooting through the long stems, back into the weeds. She bumped into Satina, then settled next to her and mouthed the word, "gang."

Men's voices drifted through the afternoon heat. She heard Vane call out Maera's father, ask him about repairs. Thanks to his earlier trick, Satina could recognize the man's voice without needing to see his face. She'd probably hear it in her sleep tonight, spend the rest of her days trying to sort out what type of magic let him speak to a whole town at once. He didn't use it now, and they were left to guess at what he asked the blacksmith to attend to.

When her father bellowed Maera's name, the girl cringed and flashed her a look of panic. Not the most convenient twist of events—the girl was already looking to her, asking for something Satina's blood would give her little opportunity to refuse. She nodded, smiled her best goodmotherly reassurance and stood up a fraction before Maera followed suit.

There'd be no turning back now. She saw it in the father's eyes when he spotted them together. Not rage, as she'd expected, but a hint of deep thoughts brewing. They damn sure involved her now, and being part of that huge man's plans made her legs tremble a little despite her resolve or the sudden pressure of the young woman's palm against hers. Maera flinched under her father's gaze. She squeezed Satina's fingers and called back, "Here!"

Worse than the blacksmith's reaction was the man's who stood beside him. Vane leaned against the shed support as if he owned the place. He did, in a fashion, if you could believe the mark that one of his men now painted carefully on the building's frame. Starlight. They had a bottle of glowing paint that could have only come from one person. Had Marten given it to them willingly? She bit her lip and tried not to think of what they might have done to him if he'd resisted.

Vane's eyes lit like torches when they found her standing amidst the weeds and holding the girl's hand. His full lips curved into a bow, a dangerous smile that had even more plans behind it. Satina met his gaze, but kept her mouth still, her face blank. Let him think what he would. Let him take whatever interest in her he liked. Her task was already set—protect the girl at her side.

Whatever plans she'd had of her own evaporated in those dark, terrified eyes, in the face of one question, do you grant wishes? She had to stay now, and if it were in her power, she had to help. She had no problem with the Starlight gang, but if the look on Vane's face meant anything, she would sooner or later.

☼

"They tagged the blacksmith's." She sat on the stool she'd claimed for her own, combing the last few tangles from her hair. Hadja stirred the cauldron over the flames, and the earthy scent of tubers cooking filled the cottage, overpowering even the herbs. "Half the town, I suspect."

The woman only snorted at the revelation and continued her cooking. "Eh. I suspect Cygnus can look out for his family. Don't worry about your Skinner none, either. He knows how to take care of himself."

"I wasn't."

"Probably crawled into a corner somewhere to wait them out."

"They had that paint he uses."

"Hmm."

"He's not my Skinner."

"Did I say that?"

"Yes." She stood up and pulled her hair back behind her shoulders, a silver cloud that hung to her waist and dripped tiny water spots on the floorboards. "You did, and he's not."

Hadja could take that little idea and stuff it in her pot. She hadn't even tried to keep her assumptions to herself, and Satina feared she'd say or do something embarrassing if she let it go unchecked. Let the woman tease her about her figure again. She'd welcome that compared to the suggestive snickers anytime they mentioned Marten's name.

"We'll need another potato." Hadja sniffed at her stew and gave it a fierce stir. "And a few more carrots."

"I'll get them." She'd already fetched more than enough, but Hadja meant for her to earn her night's sleep and then some. She pulled her cloak from the hook by the front door and slipped out. The moon already looked less full—she could feel it, the ebb of power. The air still held the day's warmth thanks to a few low clouds. She wandered around to the back of the cottage to the only strip of well-trimmed lawn.

A crooked privy stood at the far edge, backed up to the line where trees began again. At the rear of the house a simple metal pump stood beside a wooden barrel that served as Hadja's wash bin. Satina passed this and opened the door set into a lump of ground. A dark stair led down to the root cellar, and she risked a little of her own magic to make her cloak glow enough to guide her steps. Her dust pouch still lay on the bed with her other bags. In only her shift and the cloak, she trod barefoot into the cellar to pilfer the woman's stockpile of roots.

The steps complained, creaking and releasing puffs of dust. At the bottom, the soft dirt floor chilled her feet. Sturdy shelves lined the narrow space, and every one overflowed with baskets of roots and vegetables and bundles of dried herbs. The space smelled like a musty version of Hadja's home, and lit only by the glow of her cloak, the shadows danced and revealed more sigils. Even here, Marten's hand had worked its magic.

She went directly to the potatoes, but her eyes wandered, reading each spell and understanding how they played into one another. Close to the stairs, the sigils spoke of protection, barriers to evil intentions. These would keep out the weaker-minded intruders. She snatched the fattest potato she could find and bent down to a basket of wilting carrots. Under the bottom shelf, a row of clay pots hunkered, and these glowed in the magical light, flaring with signs like fever, pox, croup and death. She squinted at that last one and made a note to keep on her host's good side—or take her meals elsewhere.

Deeper in, the shelves spoke harsher warnings. Satina spied at least one curse on prying fingers, cringed and turned back toward the stair. A flash of something drew her eyes back. A shimmer near the floor reflected both her cloak's light and the nearest sigils. A twist of sack cloth covered the item that leaned against the farthest wall. It stood shoulder high and had little depth, but the bottom corner didn't quite reach the ground, and whatever hid beneath the fabric peeked out at her, shiny, smooth. Mirror.

Had the shard around Hadja's neck come from this? A Kingdoms' relic hidden amongst the woman's stores? She paused and read the marks again, the blue glow that lined the shelf lips, the stairs themselves, even the ceiling supports. Her eyes drifted over one mark before she registered the symbol. Her breath caught, and she went back to it, examined it for any error. Four dark wedges, like pieces of a pie, Shades, without a doubt. Why would Hadja have a tag in the cellar?

She squinted her eyes and the symbols flared brighter. Some of them, a few twists in the corner, a symbol like a bird over the last shelf, she didn't recognize. Dangerous to move then, with marks that could mean anything, with a Shade tag on the rafter overhead. But there on the next beam was the Starlight mark as well, a starburst around an empty circle. The two tags glowed from the same space, and neither one gave way. It made no sense at all.

She returned to the stairs and relative safety. At least the wards there were meant for obvious thievery. At the bottom step she looked back again, and this time she noticed more bundles. More sack cloth wrappings in the corners, beneath a shelf, under the stairs. Did they all hold relics like the mirror? Or was her mind conspiring with Hadja's paranoia to lead her into fancy? They could be anything. Tools, sundries. Old Magic.

No. The sigils only had her spooked. Hadja's secrets were not her business, but the woman's stew was. She scurried up the steps to the door with the vegetables tucked into a scoop of her shift fabric. The cellar door weighed more than she could manage with one free arm, and she dropped the veggies into the grass long enough to close it. Once it was safely latched, she scooped the bounty up again and tripped lightly back to the cottage door.

Voices spoke inside. She could hear them, muted, but clear enough to recognize the exaggerated pitches of their visitor. It gave her a moment to steel herself, brush one hand through her damp hair, and shake her cloak forward enough to cover most of her thin shift. If Hadja had planned the Skinner's visit, she did a brilliant job of looking both surprised and apologetic when Satina pushed her way back inside. The twinkle in her eye, however, hinted of mischief.

"There you are, Satina." Hadja scrambled from the stool faster than she'd thought her capable. "Sit. I'll take those."

"Yes, Satina," Marten lingered over her name. "Sit." He perched on the other stool, leaving her the one their host had just vacated. There were already two bowls steaming on the table, two spoons set beside them.

"Stew's ready." Hadja didn't make eye contact. She shuffled to the hearth with the vegetables that she quite clearly hadn't needed. "I'll eat by the fire."

They'd given her little choice, had obviously conspired against her. Satina inhaled the delicious scent of the stew, gave in and sidled around Marten and into the space by the cupboards before taking her place at the table. She scooted the stool a touch further from his and perched on it.

"I smelled the stew all the way from town, Hadj." The Skinner's voice teased either her or the old woman. Satina stared at her bowl so as not to find out. "Her cooking is legendary," he whispered so that his target could only be her.

Hadja grunted, and Satina scooped up a spoonful of broth and tasted it. The herbs blended into warmth and health on her tongue, delicious, maybe even legendary. "I can see why. This is really good."

"What do you know?" Hadja squatted by the fire. She ladled a bowlful for herself and grinned like a gargoyle. "You've been on the road too long. Anything would taste legendary." She teased him back now, and it relaxed the mood a tad. Satina settled more firmly on her seat and dug into her dinner with less decorum.

"How long have you been on the road, my dear?"

"Too long." She set her spoon down and looked up in time to catch him watching her. His eyes darted away, and the twisty smile returned before she could pin any emotion to the look. "Long enough to look forward to a good night's rest in a real bed," she added.

"That's too bad." Now he twinkled again. His eyes flashed brighter, not quite a surge of power, but a tint of a secret he was dying to tell. "We have Tinkers in the woods tonight, and I thought you might like to join me for a visit."

"Tinkers?" She couldn't help the waver of excitement.

Marten's amusement shone in his face, but she didn't care. She wanted to go. Of course she did. He'd have known that all along.

"What are the Gentry doing mucking about in my woods," Hadja grumbled from the hearth. "Bad enough the gangs have found us, if you ask me."

"They're in the pocket, Hadj. No need to worry. Your little patch is safe." He rolled his eyes for Satina's sake, earned only another grunt from Hadja. "If you're not interested, I won't be offended. I have some trading to do, but Tinkers can be a rowdy lot."

"Well, I was looking forward to sleeping inside."

He looked genuinely startled, and she enjoyed it for a few moments, scooped up another bite of stew while the muscles in his face warred over the proper reaction. She chewed the carrot a few times extra and then let him off the hook.

"I would love to visit with the Gentry."

"You see." His eyes flashed at the same moment the fire crackled. Satina scooped up another bit of potato and tried not to notice the old woman by the fire, rocking with silent laughter. "I just knew you would."

Chapter Seven

He favored his right ankle. Satina followed him between the trees. Even in the dark she could tell he limped on that side.

"How did your shop fare?"

Marten stopped walking. He stood with his back to her, but she could still see the change, the softening of his posture, the shoulder hunch. "Nothing to worry about." Even his voice pressed low under some weight. "But thanks for asking."

He cackled and, just like that, sprang back to his usual self. When he stepped forward, the limp nearly vanished in his spring and swagger.

"Are we going to the same pocket?"

"You're very chatty tonight."

She didn't think he meant that as a compliment. For the rest of the trek, Satina held her tongue, and focused on getting her bearings. They'd gone straight out behind Hadja's cottage and into the woods that ran behind the very fields she'd passed on the way into town. That put them heading back in the direction of their staircase, far deeper in the forest and away from the road.

The underbrush tugged at her hemline. She'd insisted on throwing on a bodice and overskirt, but wished she hadn't before they'd gone twenty steps. Her eyes took in Marten's leather pants, his tight leg wrappings. They made moving through brush easy, didn't fit loosely like a villager's would. How much time did he spend traveling like this, through the thick of it?

He'd stopped short, and she stumbled to avoid him. The look on his face made little sense until she realized she'd been examining his pants. Her cheeks burned instantly and she shook her head in protest. His grin only widened.

"We're almost there."

"Good." She stood taller and smoothed her skirts. "I'm not quite as appropriately dressed as you are." It sounded defensive, even to her ears.

Marten's eyes dragged down to her hemline and rose back to her face far too slowly. "A pity," he said. "Brambles aren't very forgiving on fabric, I'm afraid."

"I'll get by."

"On the contrary," He looked away then, let his gaze fix forward to a spot somewhere ahead. "I doubt you ever just get by."

Satina tried to dig up a fitting retort, but he was off again, pulling himself over a fallen trunk and turning to offer her a hand. The underbrush in this part of the woods grew thicker, the berries and ferns choked right up to the base of the trees, and everywhere they had to step over fallen limbs and twigs. Silence would be impossible here, even with their sigils, but Marten didn't seem concerned.

She took his hand and swung up onto the fallen giant. Moss coated the bark, making the surface slick and wetting right through both layers of her skirt. She shivered and rolled off the other side, landing on her feet where Marten had stood a moment earlier.

"You never told me," He looked back over one shoulder, already marching toward the next obstacle. "How you managed to fall astray of the Shades."

"I helped someone get out."

"Get out?" He stopped again. "Of the Shades?"

Satina nodded. She sighed and waited for the next question.

"How?"

When she didn't answer, he shook his head, laughed, and then walked on. The forest floor rose at an incline, and they scrambled the last few steps, not only over the mat of debris, but up the side of a short hill. At the apex, the trees stopped. Satina dragged up beside the Skinner and stared out into a cleared bowl of earth wide enough to hold the whole of Westwood and a few of its fields as well. Grass had grown thickly into the spaces between the walls, but nothing stood higher than the knee. Nothing grew here that could mask the area's original status.

They looked upon the ruins of some great, stone building. The moonlight tinged the giant blocks blue-black. She'd seen stones like that in the ports, scavenged from the old castles and hauled away to be used in the roadworks, seawalls and even the huge Shade fortress on the bay. The size of this foundation, and the state of the few remaining walls and rubble said, perhaps, this very building's stones had headed South on the gang's heavy sleds.

"What castle was this?" She saw at least two stairways, much taller but not as neatly preserved as the one where they'd met. The farthest wall retained the most stones. It nearly rose to the third story in places. The rest was a ragged outline of rooms, hallways, and the partial curve of a tower base. Not much stood higher than three or four stones. Only a few of the scattered blocks remained on the ground to grow moss and sink slowly into the earth.

"Nothing major," Marten shrugged, but the simple gesture didn't fit the sight in that bowl. Here would be traces of the Kingdoms, maybe even a relic—maybe Hadja's mirror. "A simple stronghold."

He underplayed it, and they both knew it. She'd traveled more than most, and she'd only ever seen one ruin this well preserved—and none this large.

"Has it been stripped?"

"The trees." He leapt forward, but landed roughly, staggering more than he'd intended on whatever injury he hid. That leg hurt him, though he tried to cover it with a flourish and wave of his arm. "The trees grow closer together around the site, ringing it in."

"A defense?" Intriguing. Satina followed more carefully down the short slope. "Then it wasn't looted?"

"Not entirely. They don't keep anyone out, my dear. Just make it a bit more difficult to find."

"Magically grown?"

"If I had to guess. Someone powerful lived here, judging by the size of the pocket they left behind."

At the bottom of the bowl, he helped her up onto the outer wall at a spot where only one stone remained. Even so, they had to clamber up onto the giant block. Once, this had stood in defense of whatever ruler lived inside the walls. She didn't care what Marten said, she'd seen the foundations in Westwood. That town, the one they'd built their own upon, would have served the lord of this castle. The fields and crops that fed the town would have belonged to him as well.

"Have you searched it?" She thought of Hadja's cellar, of the bundled mirror and other shrouded lumps. The old woman, she felt certain, was no stranger to this ruin.

"A bit." The grin said more than that. It fell away too quickly, though, and a crease formed between his eyes. "If the Starlights knew about this, you understand, my dear?"

"They'd never leave." She shivered. Had he brought her here to see the Gentry, or as a test? She didn't need his warning to know the Starlights were a danger to his town. Looking on the sprawl of stone and secrets only embedded that fully into her thoughts. Maybe that had been his intention. Maybe he was asking her for help, just like the girl had.

"Well then." He hopped off the wall and held up a hand for her. "Shall we?"

She landed beside him and he started off between the walls that, even crumbling, towered over their heads. She stepped lightly and tried not to shrink in, to curl her shoulders and hide as she'd seen Marten do in the face of the town blacksmith. Suddenly, she knew how he felt. These walls intimidated. They ruled in the place of their lost master.

As they moved, she tried to get a sense for what room they might have been in, where the hallway led once, who had walked through this door. She squinted and scanned the castle for any trace of magic. The old mages wouldn't have needed sigils. They'd have left no marks or overt showing of their arts, but all power made a print of one kind or another. The pockets were proof enough of that.

"Wait." Marten froze in place. He held one palm up and peered through a gap in the wall they'd been following. Before she could wonder, he waved her up beside him. "Have a look."

She peeked around the corner. A courtyard stretched from where they hid to the base of the largest staircase. Halfway between the stair and their position, the grass parted around a single pillar. This stone was not black, nor had it ever supported a structure. The surface shone like gray glass, and some long-dead hand had carved symbols on every available inch. The air around the menhir shimmered and stretched.

She'd never seen a pocket so clearly marked. Despite the rarity, the pressing urge to rush out and examine the symbols, a noise distracted her. She heard the soft pattering of feet and her gaze swung to the giant stairway. A cloaked figure ran up the steps.

Satina jumped back. Her heart pounded. Who else knew about the ruins? If the Starlights found it now, after showing up in town right on her heels, could she convince Marten she hadn't brought it upon the town?

His hand landed softly on her shoulder. He slid in close to her, whispered near her shoulder. "Watch." The proximity sent a tickle of heat across her skin. She reached for the wall, rested one hand there for support and looked into the courtyard again.

The climber had nearly reached the middle of the long staircase. His cloak billowed behind him, and with each leaping step, Satina caught a flash of yellow from under the hood. Gentry. The sight of one of the fully blooded outside of a pocket, out in the open, gave her chills, but not nearly as much as the pace he set as he leapt upwards. Five, four, three steps from the scrap of landing and he didn't slow. His feet pounded over the last stair, hit the landing twice, and he leapt into thin air.

Satina screamed. She clapped her hand over her mouth and Marten's followed, resting over hers for a second while his chest shook with a chuckle right up against her shoulder.

"Watch, Satina." Even as he said it, the Gentry climber fell toward the stones below. The cloak tore upwards, revealing a pair of shaggy, kick-backed legs. She only saw a flash before the whole creature vanished. Twenty feet above the ground, the air shimmered and stretched exactly as it did around the strange pillar. A pocket hung in mid-air.

"We think it was a workroom. Some place where they did magic on a regular basis."

"We?" She caught his slip, felt his body tense as he realized it.

"Hadja and I." He shrugged and stepped away from her, leaving something akin to a draft in his stead. "We used to come here together to search. It made keeping watch easier."

"Sure. Do many people know about the castle?"

"Most of the town. The children, a few of the men who hunt any farther than the innkeeper's pantry." He smiled and nodded to the courtyard again. The aura around the pillar rippled and spit out another runner. Their cloak was different, and their feet booted, but the hood was up. None of the Gentry liked to be in normal space for long, and they feared being seen even more. "They were taking turns at it this morning too."

"What are they doing it for?" The newest appearance darted to the stairs and started up even faster than his predecessor. The way he moved, and the shape of the cloak's fluttering led her to suspect wings.

"Who knows with the Gentry, maybe for sport?" He gave her a sharp look. His eyes flared and he squinted and scanned her from head to toe. "Speaking of which, I think it would be best for us to tread lightly. They aren't known for their hospitality. Visiting will require some fast talking."

"Oh?" Satina blinked at him, exaggerating the motion. She knew what he meant. He considered her a liability. "And it should be you doing this fast talking, I assume?"

"Yes." He glanced to the top of the stairs, where the cloaked figure made ready to spring into the ether. "Last time I checked, sweet and cute didn't get very far with that sort."

He stepped out into the open before she could answer. It hardly mattered—something was wrong with her tongue. She should have been offended, but her skin warmed pleasantly instead, and she shuffled out after him without a word.

The climber dove from the top step as they crossed to the standing stone. Satina watched him fall this time, waited and caught the glimmer of the suspended pocket a moment before it swallowed him. She frowned. He was still falling, still only twenty feet from stones no matter which side of the pocket he was on.

"Quick" Marten's hand found hers. He tugged her forward, and her arm tingled from the fingertips straight to her chest. "Before another one pops through."

They ran across the flat stones hand in hand. Long tufts of grass whispered between the pavers, but for the most part the courtyard lay clear around the standing stone. When it stood before them, within a few paces, only then could she make out the faint bluish lines inside the carved symbols. The Old Magic shone soft and muted compared to their sigils, and somehow it made her power seem like a garish and ugly thing. These lines had stood for centuries, and they hummed and writhed with what once was.

She didn't have time to feel bad about it. Marten pulled and she stumbled forward into the pocket. The shimmer flashed once, and they stood on the same stones, in the same courtyard beside the same tall stone.

But everything had changed.

Inside the pocket, the world retained the touch of magic it had before the Final War. The whole courtyard, the stones, the forest encircling the ruin, all glowed with brilliant light and color. Here the world did not hover in muted shades. Nothing faded or frayed. Even in the dead of night, the world was sharp and colorful. Satina inhaled and caught night jasmine on the wind. She sighed, almost lost herself in the flood of power and calm that came with entering a pocket.

The shouting spoiled the moment. A ring of yellow eyes closed in on them. The gaze of the full-blooded Gentry didn't merely flash. It glowed with a steady, golden light. Satina had spent more than a little time inside the old spaces. She'd seen her share of the Gentry despite the Skinner's judgment. These particular Tinkers only vaguely resembled humans. This band had more hooves than boots, boasted many a pointed ear or furry tufted tail and—she'd been right about the wings. They had at least three fiends among them.

"Who are you?" A voice like thunder demanded from the arc of faces, spoke too fast to see which mouth formed the words.

Marten sidestepped in front of her. It might have been protective or meant to keep her from saying something stupid. Satina couldn't decide if she should bristle or blush, but as she leaned to see around him, she made out the outline of wagons behind the huddle of angry Tinkers. They had a good sized caravan, six closed carts and one open wagon piled high with straw and if she guessed correctly, positioned exactly under the hovering pocket.

"My name is less important than my wares," He dipped into one of his bows, sweeping an arm wide and leaving her a clear view of the burly faun who'd stepped forward to address him. Marten held out his other hand, ring finger curled into the palm. "And I assure you the trades will be worth your time."

"You sing a pretty tune, little bird," the faun said. He thumped his chest with both hands and split the night with a rumbling laugh. "But names mean something to us. Anyone who won't give theirs must have something to hide."

Satina cringed. The faun leaned his head to one side. His hand fell to his waist where, she was sure, some wicked weapon waited under his cloak. "Excuse me," she sidled around Marten, dodging the hand that plucked at her skirt and ignoring his glare. "We've nothing to hide, nor did we wish to offend, Good Neighbor."

One shaggy brow lifted at the formal address. She had his attention at least. The Gentry appreciated manners even more than she did.

"My name is Satina. My friend's is Marten, and we only meant—"

"Satina?" The big man took one step closer. He brushed his cloak back and leaned down, rubbing one hand through the dark beard that matched the shaggy hair on both his head and his legs. One shiny, black hoof stamped against the courtyard stones. "Why do I know that name?"

A lantern lifted from the crowd. It drifted forward in the hands of an imp. The grey-skinned Gentry had sharp features, pointed ears and a twinkle to his face and movements that she knew very well indeed. She'd have bet money Marten's blood was from that ilk. This imp handed the light to his leader, who lifted it and cast a swath of light across their faces. Satina blinked, but held her ground. She prayed Marten knew enough to do the same. Don't move. Don't even flinch.

"Goodmother." Someone else said it. The whispers echoed it in a ring around them, followed closely by the word "Imp."

"A goodmother named Satina. That's it." The faun closed in on her, and Marten stepped to her side. She felt his arm at her waist, but he didn't do anything overt. "You brought that boy through from the port town."

"Yes." She felt Marten stiffen, the heat of his look, but she didn't turn. Instead, she locked gazes with the big faun and forced her face to remain neutral. "I did."

"Got a message for you." He rubbed his beard again and then stepped back, "Messenger!" He shouted behind him, stalked back to his line, but the mood had broken. The Gentry relaxed, and the ring loosened into a huddle that had far less of a threat to it.

Marten whispered to her, leaning in so that his lips brushed against her hair. "That's how you got him out? You brought a human through the pockets?"

Satina smiled and watched the Gentry. She pressed the nails of her hand into her palm, soothing away the little tremors his proximity stirred into motion. "Not too bad for sweet and cute?"

"I stand corrected." He stood back up, but she heard more than just humor in the words. They carried an undertone of something she couldn't label. Was he angry, jealous or something else entirely?

A fiend leapt over the line, fluttering on dainty, bat-like wings before landing beside the faun. Silken black hair trailed down her back, and her figure curved in all the correct places. Satina chewed her bottom lip and waited while the woman whispered to the big faun.

"Right," he said. "Yes, go ahead."

The fiend woman spun to face them. She stood straight and held her arms tightly to her sides. Only her wings moved, flapping in slow motion to emphasize her words. Her cat eyes widened until they shone like the lantern. "To goodmother, Satina from the wise and generous Flaut, leader of band, Alliance. Your package has been delivered safely. Be well."

When the woman finished, she folded her wings tightly and gave a tiny bow.

"Thank you." Satina nodded to her and then to the faun. "Flaut has been a great help to me. It is good to know our efforts have succeeded. " She emphasized the "our" to make sure they understood that she was not only known by the other Gentry leader, but had acted in partnership with him.

It worked on the faun. His beard danced under the assault of another huge laugh. He waved his arms and shouted at his band. "Back to it, all of you! The night is young yet."

They were instantly forgotten. The imp brushed past her and vanished through the pocket wall. She imagined him running up the long staircase on the other side. Here, the stair hung over them like an azure shadow. The menhir blazed with its symbols, and, all around, the Tinkers went about their business, clustering around the painted carts, leaning against the fallen castle walls and tending to a pair of fat horses tied to the first of their wagons.

"Would you believe their grandsire was a unicorn?" The faun leaned in beside her, followed her gaze to the draft horses and smiled under his beard.

"No," she said. "I wouldn't."

"Ha!" He clapped her on the shoulder hard enough that she staggered into Marten. "She's a sharp one you've got here, imp."

"It's Marten." His ordinary animation had vanished, and in its place, ice tipped each word. "And you haven't given us your name, Tinker."

The faun sobered instantly. He nodded once and stroked his beard. "You're right. I've been remiss." He dove into a low bow, grinning at Satina on the way back up. "Your pardon. They call me Hamis."

"Good to meet you," Satina curtseyed, but Marten remained stiff as a board.

"Will you be trading while you're here?" His tone implied the while should be as short as possible. It wasn't outright hostile, but she needed to diffuse him fast. The faun had accepted them, but that wouldn't last in the face of rude behavior.

"Maybe." Hamis' eyes narrowed. The glint sharpened.

Satina wound her arm through Marten's and leaned her head against his shoulder. She smiled at Hamis and blinked her eyes. She could feel Marten's surprise, but he made no outward move at all.

"Ha! Trade later," Hamis said. "Tomorrow." He looked up and grinned. The imp burst out of thin air, tumbling head over heels down into the cart full of straw. Around them, the pocket filled with the Tinkers' cheering.

Marten's arm wound around her waist. His twisty grin returned, and by the time Hamis noticed them again he was more himself. "Tomorrow then."

Hamis tilted his head back and howled. A pipe played over by the carts. Someone took up a drum and all around the Tinkers formed into circles. "Tonight, we play!" Hamis bellowed to the sky. The fiend who'd delivered her message burst out of the pocket with a wink, fluttering to take her turn at the stairs.

Marten's whisper echoed the words. "Tonight, we play."

Chapter Eight

He kept her dancing until her toes burned. The Tinkers' music played as wild and unfettered as the individuals themselves, and Satina swirled and leapt amongst them. She joined the circles alongside Marten and, on more than one occasion, danced in his arms while Gentry couples whirled and wound their way between the fallen stones.

The pocket border reached almost to the staircase then curled around behind the line of their caravan and to the outer wall opposite. She'd been in a few that were larger, but mainly to the east, where the mountains had shielded the plains from the backlash of the Final War. When the pipers switched again, she slipped away to the far border and settled on the ground, leaning her back against a fallen stone and rubbing her toes through her soft boots.

The pocket still swirled around her, blurring into the Tinkers' ale and the burning of her own skin. She felt all afire and tingly, and it didn't help that Marten had his hands on her for most of the night. Now he found her again, slid into the wall's shadow and settled on the ground facing her. His left hand reached out and stroked the pocket's edge. The membrane rippled under his fingertips.

"A little too much, my dear?" His eyes sparkled like crystal in the pocket's light. They had a lovely almond shape that fit his features perfectly. "Satina?"

"It's lovely."

"What is?"

"Pardon?" She blushed and dropped her gaze to her toes again. They really did hurt. "My hem's a mess."

"You know what's in those flasks, right? With your connections, I assumed you would."

"I don't like how you said that." She dropped her boot and glared at him. "What do you mean, connections?"

"Easy." He put up his hands. "Truce. You're not the only one who's been drinking, I'm afraid."

She glared at him, but he wavered like the pocket and she had to look away. "What's your story, Marten? How did an—you. Why?" She frowned and tried to remember the question.

"How did an Imp Skinner end up in Westwood selling magical paint?"

"Yes." That was it. She nodded for emphasis and earned another sideways grin. Unless she was sideways. The rocks looked wrong. When he stood up, he hung in mid air.

"Here you go, dear. Up is this way." He lifted her back to a seated position and when she listed in the other direction, pulled her back gently to rest against his side. At some point he'd sat beside her, and she felt his arm slip round her shoulders. Her body melted under that heat, and she curled into him and rested her spinning head. "My story," he said. "You really want it?"

"Yes."

"Which means, you'll owe me yours."

"Yes."

"When you're a little more lucid."

"Not drunk."

"Okay." He took a deep breath, lifting her head up and down again on the exhale. "My parents were from the north. An area even less tolerant than here, if you can imagine that."

"I can 'magine."

He patted her leg then seemed to forget what to do with his hand. It rested on her thigh while he continued, dividing her attention between his story and the warmth spreading from the contact. "They weren't fully blooded, but more obvious than me. I was only four when my father died. I don't remember what they did to him, but my mother saw it. She never left the pocket again."

"Never left it? You lived in a pocket?"

"Until I was old enough to slip away. I learned fast how to get what we needed and get back to safety."

She did imagine it then, a young imp learning how to be a Skinner to care for his terrified mother. She imagined it, and it made her want to cry. She laid her hand over his and felt him tense immediately. "Sorry." She lifted it away again, but again, his hand lingered on her thigh. He relaxed, and his voice continued, this time with careful, stilted words.

"I was sixteen when I came back and found her." He looked down, frowned at his hand as if he'd just noticed it and then lifted it away to brush his hair back. He laughed, but it was sharp and had a bitter edge. "She succumbed to her human blood in the end."

"She was sick?"

"Maybe. Maybe she was just old. Life in one small bubble isn't quite...healthy."

And yet he'd endured it. The Gentry moved around, they traveled from one pocket to the next. If rumors were to be believed, they knew of larger places too, huge pockets even, where the old world still held sway. To live always in one, small place, even a place that held all the beauty and magic of the Old Kingdoms, would be unbearable.

"I'm so sorry, Marten."

He shrugged, but she thought maybe he softened a touch.

"How did you get to Westwood? The shop?"

"Hadja found me." He laughed and this time it sounded real and full of humor again. "Actually, she caught me. Stealing, swindling a farmer out of more than he'd bargained for. After she'd tanned my hide and told me what for, she took pity on me. I lived with her for a solid year while she tried to teach me how to put my skills to better use."

"Did it work?" She only teased, but his shoulders set again.

"Nope. I'm a lost cause."

"Marten."

He sighed and turned a look on her that sent a little shiver to her toes. "The boy you rescued is a thief. He's stolen more from me than he paid for that box."

"His parents?"

"If his father knew, he'd beat him."

"So you meant to teach him a lesson without getting him hurt."

"Maybe. Maybe I only meant to recoup some of my losses."

"I'm sorry."

She touched him on the arm without thinking. The gesture felt right, and he didn't pull away or even tense up this time. This time, he turned to her with a new fire in his eyes. Satina's breath caught. They stared for a split second and then Marten moved. She leaned in, and they found one another's lips. The jolt of power sent her arms searching for him. Her body blazed and trembled as the Skinner's mouth covered hers, as the kiss pressed onward.

His hand found her thigh again. The other slipped into her hair and pulled her face against his. The pocket shrank to a tight skin around them, a warble of sensations both physical and magical. Satina clung to him, wound her arms around his neck and held on while the maelstrom spun inside her chest. He pulled her onto his lap, leaned away enough to drag the kiss down along her neck.

The world spun. It didn't stop when he lifted his eyes to hers, nor when he leaned back and squinted at her. His arms loosened, and she fell into the spin. Her head broke the pocket barrier. The world outside still looked drab and washed out. It waited in real space, completely unaware of the glorious things in the pocket. Satina frowned at a sky with no spark. She should have hit the ground by now. Instead, strong arms pulled her back.

The ruins blazed with magic again. She blinked and found Marten staring down at her. Something sad touched his eyes. She reached up without thinking, to bring him closer, maybe just to touch him. His lips curled up at the corners.

"You are completely toasted."

"M'not."

"Really?"

She nodded until his face whirled overhead.

"Then sit up on your own." He started to let go. She fell with his arms, limp. Not one muscle answered her command to sit up. "Drunkard." He pulled her up. His eyes made the word an endearment. "Get some sleep, my dear." One of his hands brushed her hair back, and he bent forward and touched a soft kiss to her forehead.

She fell asleep curled in the Skinner's lap, staring up at stars that remembered when the castle still stood. When she awoke, cool grass pressed against her cheek. She lay on the ground and the wrong imp stared down at her. This one had pointy ears and sharp teeth. She scrambled to sit up, and felt her stomach flip over. Her head throbbed and her lips tasted like sand.

"Unngh." She grabbed her head and lay back down quickly. The imp cackled and scampered away. Satina rolled onto her hands and knees. She held still while the nausea washed over and then, carefully, sat back on her heels.

The pocket bathed in golden sunlight. She felt it then, the longing that was the price of time spent in Old Space. Why couldn't the whole world look like this? Hadn't it, once upon a time?

"A bit fuzzy this morning?" The voice was feminine, and only partly friendly.

Satina looked to either side. The menhir stood directly across the courtyard from her, in one direction, the pocket wall shimmered. In the other, a huddle of Gentry sipped from the skin flasks and eyed her sideways between whispers. She twisted, but saw no one close enough to belong to the voice.

The fiend messenger dropped to the stones, directly in front of her and with too much grace for her own situation. "Your man's off haggling with Hamis," she said. Her full lips smiled and she bent into a dainty squat and eyed Satina closely.

"He's not m—" Something about the cat eyes, the long silky hair and ample chest stalled her tongue. "He's where?"

"With Hamis." The fiend stood. Either Satina imagined it, or her edge had gone. At least the smile seemed more genuine the second time. "Over by the carts."

"Thank you."

The woman shrugged and leapt way, only half flying and managing to utilize her figure to her advantage as she worked her way toward another group of Tinkers. She had everything in the right place, and she knew it. Satina bit her lip and scanned the line of wagons. She smoothed her skirts and tucked the loose bits of hair back into the knotted bun before changing her mind and loosing the whole thing. If she couldn't wear her hair down in the pocket, where could she?

She didn't intend to barge into the negotiations, but just sitting there would emphasize the damage she'd done to her body the night before and only open her to more mockery. She leaned one arm against the stone block and stood, waiting for the ruins to stop tilting before trying to walk. The standing stone still beckoned, and she worked her way in that direction.

The symbols barely glowed in daylight—even in the pocket. She hesitated at the base of the huge monolith, craned her neck back and tried to read just one of the marks. Satina squinted, and the faint lines flared. The sigils squirmed and slipped away, hovering on the very edge of understanding. She recognized a piece of one, a fragment of another, the curve at the bottom there. She relaxed into the shifted vision and willed to symbols to make sense.

One alone flared brighter. It focused and surged while all around it, the others dimmed and seemed to shift aside. She followed the mark's lines with her eyes, drawing it in her mind over and over. The thought appeared without effort, Vision, and before she could register the success, the scene all around her shifted. She was thrust upward through her crown, pushed hard by an unseen hand and left to float above the castle ruins.

Below lay, not the pocket, but the whole basin in real space. The colors dimmed and grayed. The caravans vanished, and all over the stones, the Starlights swarmed.

The gang leader, Vane, strode through the ruins as if he owned the place. His band flanked him, and a small child led the way. The boy skipped and chattered and pointed out the stairs, the courtyard, and the standing stone. This, Vane nodded at. His lips pursed and his eyes narrowed. Satina could only guess at his plans, could only wonder what he'd given the boy to buy the town's betrayal. She cringed away from the child's familiar face. She knew him. She'd set him free on the dark road leading into Westwood.

Shouting forced her gaze back down. A Tinker had burst from the pocket, darted a half dozen steps toward the stair before realizing she was not alone. Satina knew her as well—the fair fiend who'd delivered her message from Flaut. The girl sprang into the air at the sight of the gang. Her wings fluttered madly. Her cat-eyes stretched wide with fear. She flew up, toward the suspended pocket, while Vane's men drew swords and rushed in.

Satina saw the archer first. She screamed, but no sound came out. The man dropped to one knee and took aim. The fiend flew directly for the rift, and the man's bow fired. She dived toward the pocket, but the arrow struck first. The girl staggered in mid air, one bat-wing torn and useless. She was falling now, all the time reaching for the pocket's escape while her wings tried to compensate for the injury.

The archer aimed again. The second time Satina screamed, the force slammed her down. She hit her own body as if it were stone, staggered and heard her voice howling for help as if it were far away in someone else's head.

The courtyard erupted. Tinkers ran shouting in her direction. Somewhere in the mob, Marten called her name. Her eyes fixed to the spot over the wagon. She pointed to the rippling air, shot one arm out and tried to make words that didn't sound like a shriek. One heartbeat pounded in her chest, two, three. The fiend fell through the pocket. She hit the straw and didn't move.

The Gentry wheeled around. They converged on the form in the wagon, climbing over the sides and one another to get to the fiend's aid. Satina's chest heaved. She watched them, struck dumb at last and only able to stare and pray the woman lived. The voices continued, but she heard them through a fog, muted and distorted by the sigil, by Vision's, afterglow.

"What happened? What—Satina!" It was Marten who got through to her, his hands that took her by the shoulders and shook her back to the moment.

"Wing." She shook her head and blinked at him. He'd be so angry at her over the boy. His town would never lose the Starlights now. "The gang is in the ruins."

His face hardened. She saw it in his eyes, what the news meant to him. "They followed us."

"No." She swallowed hard. Tears blurred her vision. How could she tell him? "Someone was leading them."

"Who?" The weight of his hands on her cloak, warm, even gentle brought back the night before, the kiss that he would likely never repeat. "Satina, who led them?"

"The boy. Your thief with the booby trap." The words choked in her throat.

Marten's face twisted between emotions. A snarl came out, but it had less force than the shadow in his eyes. His hands dropped to his sides. "Are you sure? How?"

"The menhir. One of the sigils lets you see outside the pocket."

"And they're there now, in the ruins?"

"Yes." She half feared he would break through to confront them, but he only frowned deeper and looked back to the wagon where a group of the larger Genrty were lifting the fiend out from the straw. Her injured wing hung like a curtain between the men. The other one fluttered in pathetic, spastic fits. "They shot her wing."

"More than that."

She could see it too. Once the Tinkers set the fiend on the ground and cleared a space around her. A single arrow shaft still stuck from the woman's torso, toward the shoulder but not quite clear of her chest. Its flights blazed Starlight blue. The Tinkers closed in again. Their healer knelt beside the girl.

Before she could see more, Hamis left the crowd. He headed in their direction, and his huge form blocked any view of the wounded fiend. She screamed once, and Satina cringed. Had they tried to remove the arrow?

"You!" Hamis rounded on them. "Who did this? Your people?"

"Starlights," Marten spat the word. "Came into town yesterday."

"Something you failed to mention," Hamis narrowed his eyes and rubbed a big hand through his beard.

"They didn't know about the ruins." Satina felt compelled to defend their silence, though in hindsight, she agreed with the faun. They'd seen the Gentry playing tag with the real world, and hadn't so much as warned them. She could see it on Marten's face as well. They both suffered guilt pangs. The fiend's screaming didn't help.

"Granted," Hamis said. "Still, I suspect you should be going." He glanced back over his shoulder. "Just in case."

"Can't we help?"

The screams quieted into a steady moan. "We take care of our own." Hamis scowled, and though his look said enough, Marten still had to take her by the cloak and tug her away. She went after him for no better reason than because she had nowhere else to go. Their own most definitely excluded two half-bloods who lived among humans.

Marten led her to the spot where they'd slept. He didn't look at her once, only reached out and stroked the barrier just as he had the night before. "You remember the pocket where we met?"

"Beside the stairway."

"Yes."

She put her hand against the magic, felt it pulse and ripple beneath her palm. She remembered it. She closed her eyes and stretched her mind to find it. A blur of imagined places slipped past. One by one the pockets shuffled. Satina focused on the one she'd stepped from on the night they'd met, the night she'd freed the boy who in turn had brought the Starlights to the castle.

"Got it?"

"Yes." The image fixed in place. Solid, a real place where they could sneak away. Marten took a deep breath, but he didn't make eye contact. He didn't look up, and even though they stepped through together, even though she'd wandered by herself for fifteen years, Satina had never felt quite so alone.

Chapter Nine

They slipped out of the next pocket as rapidly as they entered it. This time, they rejoined normal space, emerged from the bushes beside the shadow of the same crumbling staircase where they'd met two nights before. Satina noticed the difference as soon as she stepped through the membrane. The stair had been tagged far more obviously. It gleamed with huge, magically painted Starlight symbols.

Marten growled beside her. The noise was the first he'd made since Hamis banished them from the Tinker camp. She risked a look at him, pressing her nails into her palms for courage. His rage seemed aimed elsewhere. His eyes focused on the stair, and she saw fire in them.

"Marten." The bravery didn't extend to touching him. "I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault." Despite the words, his tone was clipped.

"The boy, I—"

"The trap wasn't meant to last. He'd have been free in time to do this either way."

So she hadn't aided the boy's crime much. Somehow, it didn't make her feel any better, not with Marten looking everywhere but directly at her. Not with the ice in his voice, the self-loathing. His shoulders curled into a slump.

That posture, the defeat he embraced so quickly, wriggled under her skin. The Starlights, the Shades even, they did this to people. To anyone. And the Gentry fiend? They'd shot her down like a game bird. "We have to stop them." It seemed the obvious thing to say, the only just answer, but Marten looked at her like she'd just sprouted a tail.

"Oh really?"

"What else can we do?"

"Well, I was leaning toward nothing."

"Nothing?" She'd heard that wrong, or he'd meant it as a joke. The Starlights had his town in a chokehold. What they'd done to the Gentry couldn't be ignored.

"That's right." He swept past her, stopped at the roadside long enough to squint at the sky, and then started off through the ruts toward Westwood.

Satina scurried after him. They walked toward town without speaking. When they'd reached the outlying fields the sky darkened with thick clouds that spoke of both rain and an early dusk. The fences had been tagged already, and she knew Marten saw the marks. He said nothing, not until they neared the stable and the chapel steeple stretching toward the incoming storm.

"If you were planning to move on, I suspect now would be a good time."

"What?" She stopped walking, stood in one of the wider ruts and stared at him.

"You know," he waved an arm half-heartedly. "Move along. Get while the going is good. Abandon ship."

It stung, even with his lilting tease behind the words. He meant it. She couldn't miss his sincerity. Shove off, he meant. Get lost. Her mouth opened to retort, but a voice from the road ahead preempted her reply. It shouted at them from the edge of town.

"Halt!"

They hadn't really been moving. Still, Marten froze in place. They both waited without twitching while two blue-booted men approached. They'd drawn short swords, and wore scraps of armor that she hadn't seen among the gang's attire previously. Crude metal cups topped their shoulders, and one man had an armored plate bound to his sword arm.

"It's the half-bloods," he snarled to his fellow. "Vane's been looking for you, shopkeeper. They'll be needing more tools. Shovels, I reckon. Picks, whatever you're hiding."

To raze the castle ruins and find—what? The menhir flashed in her mind's eye, and she was certain there was more power hiding there, things Hadja and Marten had not found that would prove deadly in the Starlight's hands. And Marten wanted to do nothing.

"Not hiding, certainly." Marten shuffled now to the side, effectively putting himself between her and the gang members. "I'm sure we can work something out."

"What about her?" The second guard stuck a finger in her direction. "Vane said—"

"She's just on her way home," Marten interrupted him. He cast a look her way, low down and pleading for her to take his hint and run. "Down past the blacksmith," his voice sharpened. "On the road that leads east to the mountains."

"Shut up." The man kicked out. His boot landed on Marten's thigh and sent him stumbling. "No one asked you where she lived, Skinner."

"Stop it!" Satina moved to help him, but he shrugged her off, pulled away and turned a blazing expression on her.

"Go home," he said. "I'll take one of these gentlemen to the store and help him, and I'm sure the other will continue to do his job here as he's been instructed."

He'd worked out a nice escape plan for her, and without consulting her for an opinion. Now the guards exchanged looks and processed what he'd said. Maybe he'd guessed correctly and they had orders to watch the road. More likely they'd been ordered to watch for two half-bloods wandering in from an errant pocket.

"I'll see you later tonight, then." She didn't wait for him to answer, or for the Starlights to decide on a course of action. Leaving Marten alone with them would have been her last choice, but he'd dug a trench for her that pointed directly toward Hadja's, or if she read him correctly, toward the mountains far outside of town. She balled her skirts into her fists, lifted them enough to give her boots more freedom, and trotted away, half expecting the guard to snatch her mid-flight and drag her back.

Instead, they let her be, allowed her to run for it while Marten was still firmly in their clutches. She chewed her lip and rounded the corner in front of the smithy. They'd kicked him on the leg he already favored. Had they done the original damage yesterday as well? She ground each step into the road and snarled at nothing in particular. She had nothing to lash out with or against, no fighting skill at all. She was a Granter. She didn't work with weapons.

Regardless, she had no intention of taking Marten's orders, of running and leaving him or his town to the Starlights' fate. She'd seen the fiend fall, would see it again whenever she closed her eyes. She planned on fighting, by herself if necessary. Otherwise, if the gangs could rout her at every turn, if they could dog her steps, destroy everyone she tried to assist, how could she call herself a Granter?

If she couldn't help this town, how could she help anyone?

She didn't know if it was the Starlights, or Marten or that arrow standing from the fiend's chest, but something had hardened into a stubborn knot inside her. She didn't want to run anymore. She wanted to chase the gang out of Westwood. Even as she jogged past the blacksmith's shop, as she ducked her head to avoid the gazes of the Starlights inside the shed, waiting for their turn at armoring, she knew she had to try. She had to help the whole town, to face down a gang and survive.

She was pretty sure no one ever had.

The girl, Maera, hid in the grass on Hadja's side of the fence. She hunkered down in the weeds and herbs where the men in her father's shed couldn't find her. When Satina passed, Maera turned in her direction. The girl smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes, one of which had a purple bruise around it. A shout from the smithy had her back to hiding in an instant, and Satina marched on to Hadja's herbed path, grateful for the soothing aromas.

It had already started, the Starlight invasion. How many more children would suffer bruises, or worse?

She stomped up the path, huffing the scent of herbs until she felt light-headed. Hadja stood up as she swept by. The woman said something, but Satina didn't catch it. She didn't slow down, didn't calm down, until the cottage warmth enveloped her and the scent of something roasting momentarily triumphed over her rage. She hadn't eaten all day, and her stomach rumbled in protest.

It held nothing but the Tinker's alcohol, and the scent of meat was nearly too much for her. She grabbed for the nearest stool and flopped into it, lowering her head to the table. The door opened and Hadja's soft footsteps padded inside. Satina didn't even look up. She listened to the woman moving about the cottage and let the smells drive her thoughts away from gangs and Old Magic for just a moment.

Hadja returned to the table. She set a bowl down, followed by a second. Then she perched on the open stool and waited for her cooking to lure Satina back to lucidity. It didn't take long. The scent of garlic and sage pulled her head up as firmly as if a hand lifted her. She slid the bowl over and inhaled the fumes before digging in.

They ate together without questions, but the air hummed with expectation. Hadja had patience, but she also had a power of her own, maybe not magic, but compelling just the same. When Satina's scoops slowed enough that she could breathe between bites, she found the woman's eyes drifting to her. The old fingers folded under Hadja's chin, and the urge to speak overwhelmed her.

"The gang has found your castle ruins." She took another bite, hoping for some reaction, but Hadja only nodded and pressed her lips tighter. "They shot one of the Gentry. I don't know if she lived or died."

That time she earned a grunt.

"They're going to dig there. They'll never leave now. The whole town will suffer or—"

"Or learn to live under gang rule. Yes. I've seen it elsewhere too, missy. You're not the only one who's traveled."

"What do we do?" Her hands shook now, and she set down the spoon.

"We?" Hadja laughed. "Are you planning on staying to help?"

"Of course." She jumped from the stool when Hadja's fist banged against the table. The woman's face split into a grin.

"Good! There now, sit back down."

Satina shook her head. She saw a fight in the woman's eyes, saw the same things she felt reflected back. "Marten wants to give up. He wants to..."

"Don't judge him too harshly." Hadja waved her to sit. "Sit down. The man has been through more than his share of fighting, he's lost more than his share too. Can't blame him for not wanting to lose more."

"But they'll take over his shop. They're already stealing from him."

"Wasn't talking about the shop." Hadja stared at her, waited. Her eyes pierced Satina's front as if it were mist.

"He told me to go away." The sob burst from deep in her chest. Her eyes spilled tears she didn't know she'd been checking. "He. Told. Me. To. Leave." She gasped the words between shivers.

Hadja's hand covered hers. The woman's gaze softened. Her voice soothed instead of scolding. "Come now. Come on. Why do you suppose he did that?"

"He's mad at me for letting the boy go." She sniffed and wiped at her eyes with her free hand. "He blames me for bringing the Starlights."

"Not likely, that. Try again."

"Well, maybe he doesn't want me to get hurt."

"Now see, I knew you were a smart girl. Eat. I'll get you a cloth."

She stood and wandered into the back room. Satina obeyed her orders and cleaned the rest of her bowl. She felt better with something solid in her stomach. But her eyes burned now from the trickle of tears that continued to run their course. When Hadja returned and handed her a scrap of fabric, she wiped her face and blew her nose into the square.

"Better?"

"Thank you."

"Now." Hadja sat and banged her elbows onto the tabletop. She stuck her chin into her palms and pursed her lips. "Now we need a plan."

"What?"

"Well, we can't exactly storm up to this Vane fellow, just the two of us, and demand he gets out of town."

"But we can do something." Together. She felt lighter with an ally. The task seemed less impossible. "You have an idea?"

"Nope." Hadja dashed her plans, but the old woman's eyes still sparked with rebellion. "But we've a wealth of power between us. Has to be something we can come up with to stop a little band of Starlights."

"Are you a Shade?"

"Wh—where did you get an idea like that?" Hadja snorted. She didn't look away, or flush or give any sign of guilt. "No time for either of that lot."

"There's a symbol in your cellar. I couldn't help but notice them."

"Eh. Well, next time look closer. Those aren't gang symbols, goodmother." She sat up taller and her eyes glazed a bit, lured away by some thought Satina couldn't guess at. "Where do you think that lot came up with their flashy badges?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I do. They stole them, like everything else they claim."

The thatch pattered as the clouds finally gave up their rain. Satina eyed the rafters, expecting the force to breach the cottage's defenses. Nothing dripped under the first assault, however. She frowned and eyed her bowl without realizing it. Hadja whisked it away to be refilled.

"So the symbols in your cellar are something else, and the gangs took them?"

"Twisted them, you might say. Even the gangs come from something older. Did your parents teach you nothing of the Powers? You'd think with your blood...oh."

The woman trailed off, and Satina waited, twisting her fingers together and finding more filth than she liked under her nails. So long on the road, and so little time to worry about things like clean nails.

"Well," Hadja brought her more food, but this time she just stared at it. "Don't you worry. Our Skinner will come around eventually."

"He's not really a Skinner, is he?"

"Sure he is. Sure."

"I don't understand. He only meant to teach that boy a lesson, and he doesn't really hurt anyone."

"Maybe it's not the man you don't understand. Maybe it's the word itself."

Skinner. Had it come from something older as well? If it had, if it meant more than she believed, what did that make her? What did Granter really stand for? What else had her education lacked? She could see the understanding of that in Hadja's eyes, and dropped hers back to the bowl of meat she didn't feel like eating.

"You've had a rough morning," Hadja said. "And a night on the ground, no doubt. Why not take some rest in a real bed?"

"What about the gang? We have to—"

"Sleep, child. You're out of steam. We'll have time to plan later."

Satina nodded. Her bones complained already about the night on the ground, and her muscles had gone soft and unresponsive.

"There you go. Good." Hadja helped her up, steered her toward the curtain. "Don't you worry. You get some rest, and I'll do some thinking."

"Think for both of us." Satina stumbled through the curtain without pulling it aside. It veiled her for a moment, a thick shroud she could hardly breathe through. The rough fabric scratched her bare arms. She pushed on, straight in where she knew the bed waited, and the curtain dragged back over her head and into its proper position.

The last thing she heard before sleep swept her away was Hadja's chuckle, her soft steps back to the kitchen. She could do the thinking tonight. Satina closed her eyes and was out.

Chapter Ten

The standing stone blazed like a torch. The old symbols didn't simply glow, they danced and writhed and whispered their secrets to Satina. She reached for them, pointed one finger like an arrow and followed the curves and slashes as if drawing them. Where had Vision gone? She examined every symbol, every twisting line looking for the one mark that would let her see again.

A scream tore through the night. She looked up, away from the brilliant sigils to a black sky and the body falling toward her. Its wings thrashed and dripped blood. Huge cat-eyes bored into her as the fiend fell and fell.

Satina sat up, gasping for breath, shoulders heaving. Sweat drenched her nightshift, making the thin fabric cling to her in a twisted sheath. Her room had grown warm, suggesting Hajda had a good fire burning. The sky through the tiny strip window in the cottage's rear wall was midnight blue and clear enough of clouds for a few stars to twinkle through. The storm had ended, and the hour was late.

The dream hazed over rapidly, and she grasped at it, sure some detail had offered significant information. It hadn't felt like an ordinary dream at all. The fiend's bloody wings fluttering, casting shadowy patterns over the old sigils. Of course, the pockets didn't align like that in the waking world. The stone stood half way across the courtyard from the suspended rift. She chewed on the images. The glow of old magic, the fiend's wounds, her body bursting from the pocket in mid-air.

A pocket in mid-air. Could they use that? An idea whispered to her, but it flitted away quickly in the sound of thumping on the cottage door. Satina held her breath. Her hands grabbed the thick quilt and tucked it up under her chin. Hadja's steps pattered to the door, her voice grumbled at the visitor. Had Marten come late for dinner? She strained to hear the voice that might confirm it.

Instead, Hadja's words sharpened. The woman's steps thudded to the curtain, far more loudly than she usually moved. Her voice screeched as well, unnaturally high in pitch. It carried easily through the curtain. "She's sleeping."

Satina heard the warning there. She fell back to her mattress and held perfectly still. The blanket covered her to the shoulders, and her hair fell over the side of the bed. She tried to relax, to make her breathing rhythmic, but inside her chest, her heart pounded.

The curtain rustled aside. A second passed, and another, before it dropped back into place. From the other side, she heard Vane's voice. The gang leader spoke in a low tone, a soft thunder that filtered and lost words through the curtain barrier. "Business with you," she heard that much, and strained for more. The voices hushed, however, and she was left with only mumbling and the sound of footsteps to sort out the scene.

The front door opened and shut. Satina wanted to sit up, to rush out and question her host, but something held her in place. A coil of fear lodged in her chest and she waited and listened. Soft steps outside the window, the sound of the root cellar door clanging against the ground. Hadja. Which meant the steps pacing across the floorboards belonged to Vane.

The curtain pulled back, not softly. The noise required a response, and Satina moaned softly and shifted farther onto her side. The gang leader stood in her doorway. The sound of his breathing reached her only a few feet away. Her pulse thrummed, and outside, the cellar door banged closed. The curtain fell again, but she was still too terrified to breathe. She waited while her lungs tightened until the cottage door opened again. It thumped hard against the wall, and Hadja tramped inside.

"This should do the trick," she said. "But it can be traced. I wouldn't—"

"I didn't ask what you would."

"Of course."

They spoke in louder voices now, and she knew one meant to wake her and the other to warn her not to budge.

"You'll tell the goodmother I was here."

"Just as soon as she's up. Poor thing. She's been on the road so long I doubt we could rouse her now."

"No. Of course. Let her sleep for now." The door creaked open yet again. "Do make sure you let her know I want to speak with her." He raised his voice again, ridiculous, obviously fully aware that she listened now. "I'm quite certain she'll want to hear what I have to say."

"I'm sure she will," Hadja answered. Even through the curtain, Satina could hear the defeat in her words. Still, she couldn't bring herself to move from the bed. The idea of facing Vane now, when he knew she'd been listening, pretending to sleep, made her cheeks burn.

She remained there, frozen, after Vane had gone. She counted, tried to imagine his long steps on the path, and guess how far he'd gone with each breath. Hadja walked softer again, she moved to the fire and back twice, then something clanged softly and the front door creaked. Steps in the back yard moved her at last. Her counting put Vane well past the stables by now, and she guessed Hadja returned what she'd brought him to the cellar.

Satina needed to see what that was.

She pushed the quilt away and knelt on the bed, holding to the window sill and peering out and down toward the privy. Hadja already stood in front of the root cellar. She cradled something in the crook of one arm, but bent down and set it in the grass before wrestling with the heavy door. The woman's old frame hunched even more under the weight of the wooden panel. She struggled to lift it, reaching far over her head to swing it fully open. Satina should have rushed to help her, should have felt the slightest urge at least.

Instead she sat paralyzed, her eyes fixed on the clay jar Hadja had left in the grass, the one she'd brought for Vane. What had she said? It can be traced. Satina dug her fingernails into the window sill and read the sign printed on the jar's side. Death.

The door landed with a thump, and Hadja bent and retrieved the jar. She carried it down the steps into the dark. Death, and she'd given some to Vane. Satina would have bet on it. Whose death, however, she couldn't begin to guess. She didn't want to.

When Hadja emerged from the hole in her yard, when she wrestled the door back into place and padded her way back around the house, Satina didn't move from the window. She didn't get up. She didn't leave her bedroom, and eventually the living room fell quiet, the woman went to bed, and she was left to stare out at the dark sky and worry.

☼

"Can you think what he might want with you? Have you spoken to him at all?"

"No." Satina poked her spoon into the bowl of mush and shrugged. "I don't know what he wants."

Hadja just made a thoughtful noise and continued her pacing. She pulled things from the cupboards, bits of cloth and herbal packets, a jar of something dried that looked like it might have been an animal once. All these she piled into a stumpy basket sitting on the table. They'd only spoken in fits and starts since Satina had crawled from the safety of the little back room. Now, Hadja covered the basket with another square of cloth and nodded her satisfaction.

"There. You can just run that up to your Skinner when you're done."

"What?" She stared at her gruel and debated actually eating, just to postpone the task. At least it shifted the topic from Vane, but she wanted to talk about Marten even less. "I'm not sure he's interested in seeing me today."

"Had a wee spat, did we?"

"Not exactly."

"No matter. I'm sure it'll all blow over with the new day." The flippant comment didn't soothe her worry. In fact, her dread congealed into a wad of nerves. What if Marten had been Vane's target? Did she have time to warn him?

"I'll go now," she said. "My stomach isn't quite ready for food again."

"You're sure?"

Satina already had the basket handle looped over her forearm. She nodded, not quite looking her host in the eye, and darted out the front door. She took huge sucking breaths along the path, inhaling as much of Hadja's herbal defenses as she could before hitting the dirt track and turning left.

She nearly tripped over Maera. The blacksmith's daughter waited in the road for her, right outside Hadja's field. She grinned when Satina burst from the weeds, ducked aside to avoid being trampled and then fell in step beside her.

"Good morning, goodmother," she said. The words came out as a sing-song greeting. The girl's steps bounced.

"Good morning, Maera. Your spirits are high today." She checked the girl's face, still bruised and purple around her left eye. The injury didn't dim the smile one bit.

"Oh yes." She fell silent as they passed her father's smithy. The hour was early enough that no blue-booted customers crowded the shed. Maera's father labored at the forge under the roof alone and with great puffs of steam and heat wafting out into the street. When they'd taken three steps beyond his site, the girl continued, "Satina?"

"Hmm?" She scanned the roadside. More tags marked the end of the alley she'd fled through. An oily, gray cat sat on a stone block just inside the mouth. Someone had tied a blue ribbon round the poor thing's neck.

"Will you grant me a wish?"

She stopped walking, stopped frowning at the cat and turned. Maera gleamed up at her, wide-eyed and overflowing with hope. "You want my help?" She had to be certain. The girl would need to understand the consequences of running, the hardship. She focused on the purple mark and nodded. It would be hard to get her away from the father, but she'd do it, if Maera asked her.

"Yes."

Satina put a hand under Maera's chin and tilted the girls faced to the light. She squinted at the bruise. "Your father?"

Maera shrugged. "It's not that."

"Isn't it?"

"I'm in love, Satina!"

Her hopes crumbled. A fearful tremor replaced them. She had a feeling she knew what was coming. She'd seen Maera spying in the grass, and the scene took on a completely different meaning. "Who, Maera?"

"He's so beautiful."

"Oh, Maera, who?"

"Vane." She sighed the name, stretched it out into one ominous exhale.

"Oh, Maera. No." She dropped her hands to the girl's shoulders and tried to make her voice as gentle as she could. "Not Vane."

"Why not?" Maera stiffened. She pulled away and scowled. "Why not him? He's lovely, and strong and has all those people following him."

"He's a gang leader. You understand that?"

"I don't understand. I thought you helped people."

"I do, but fixing you up with Vane would not be helping you."

"How do you know? I love him. He makes me feel...he looks at me and..."

"Exactly. It's not love, honey. It's something else." Satina smiled, but she let a stern edge enter her warning. "This gang is trouble, Maera. Trust me. I've seen them at work before."

"You don't know Vane. Maybe he's different."

"He's not. They all work the same way. The Shades down in the ports, the Starlights, all of them. They'll be nice up front, make a good show. They can be very convincing, Maera, but falling in with them is a path you don't want to start down."

"How would you know?" The girl sniffed and crossed her arms. She looked away toward town.

"Because I've helped people get away from them." That got the effect she'd intended. It snapped Maera's attention back to her. The girl's eyes narrowed.

"When?"

"Before I came here. There was a boy around your age who'd joined the Shades. He had a crush on a girl who worked in the market. He thought it would get her attention, maybe impress her."

"Didn't it?"

"Not exactly." Impressed or not, the girl's parents had packed her into a wagon and moved on long before the young man's apprenticeship had ended. She skipped that part and focused on the message. "The point is, they wouldn't have let him have the girl anyway, would they? Unless she'd joined up as well. They made him do things, Maera, not nice things. He lost his friends, his family. They isolated him from all of that because, once you've joined a gang, they are everything and the only thing allowed in your life."

"But if the one you love is in the gang, then who would mind?"

"You don't want that."

"So you won't do anything for me? You won't even talk to him?"

"Oh, I'll talk to him."

Maera squeaked. She took the statement completely the wrong way, slapped her hands over her mouth and spun in the middle of the street. "Thank you! I knew it. I knew you'd help."

"Wait!" Too late. Maera skittered away like an insect back toward the smithy. "Damn." She'd seen that swoony look on more than one young woman's face, and it usually meant trouble. To someone like Maera, someone whose family life was unpleasant to begin with, a gang often seemed like a romantic, adventurous alternative. She should have known the girl would be susceptible. She should have paid closer attention.

As Maera's skirts vanished into the smoky shed, Satina bit her lip and turned away. She rounded the corner into town with a stamp in her steps and a whole list of complaints to bring against the Starlight leader. Vane—the bastard, the same egomaniacal, megalomaniac, vicious, town-destroying bastard that headed every gang chapter—with slightly different hair.

She snarled out loud at the tag glowing over the chapel doorway. The fountain splattered ahead, and Satina stormed down the street, swinging her basket wildly and cursing Vane with each step. When she saw the state of Marten's shop, however, her curses shifted into thoughts of murder.

They'd shattered his lovely window. The shelves bore half the goods they'd carried the day she'd first come to town. Whether the gang requisitioned his inventory, or the broken window had left him vulnerable to thieves, she couldn't say, but she felt the sting of tears just looking at the glass crystals spread in a fan across the paving stones. They gleamed in the morning light, some still in smooth slivers, and many others ground to dust under the tread of blue boots. The hooks from which his tools had dangled lined up empty and swinging in the swirls of air coming off the fountain.

Had he struggled? She ground her teeth together and jogged around the fountain, taking the shop stairs in a single leap and pushing the door open. The bells still jangled from the knob, announcing her arrival in the debris that had once been an orderly shop.

Satina threw the basket to the floorboards and pushed the shelf blocking her way back upright. Broken goods littered the floor. Jewelry flashed in a swath beside a second overturned shelf. Someone had swept the fixed shelving along one wall so that all the items piled at the base of the empty boards. Where was Marten? Her eyes followed the furnishings up and down, searched the heaps and finally landed at the counter that, miraculously, stood unscathed.

"Marten!"

She stepped over the items on the floor, down the aisle that she'd made by shifting the shelving aside. She had to walk sideways. Her heart raced. The counter was unmanned. The door to the back room was shut. A groan came from behind the counter.

"Marten?"

"We're closed." A hand reached up and slapped the top of the counter. His fingers flexed, and pulled the rest of him into view. "For repairs."

His hair stuck up in places, and his right cheek had a darker gray cast that could have been a bruise. He looked groggy, like he'd slept there behind the counter, and he leaned against it in a way that suggested he wasn't ready to stand on his own.

"It's you." His chin lifted and he stood a bit taller. "I thought I told you to leave town."

"Did you sleep here? On the floor?"

"Not so much slept as passed out, my dear." He shrugged, and the movement threw him off balance. He listed to one side and slipped, only remaining upright by wedging a shoulder against the counter.

"Are you injured?" She pushed the last few feet to the counter and worked her way around the end.

"A bit." His head wobbled back and forth. "Mostly cold." He didn't resist when she slid under his arm. She eased some of his weight onto her shoulders and helped him sit again. His legs didn't want to hold much weight, and after the kick she'd witnessed, she couldn't blame them. She had a feeling it had only been the first of many.

"I can fix cold," she said. "Just you wait."

He leaned his back against the counter and stared at her. Satina ignored the look and rummaged under her cloak.

"You didn't leave." He made it an accusation.

"No. Look." She pulled out her warmer and watched his curiosity war with his temper. He wanted to scold her some more. She could see it in his eyes. Instead he nodded at the spindle.

"What is that?"

"My trinket." Without dirt to stick the spindle in, however, she needed to get creative. The debris around the counter produced her spool of thistledown. Perfect. She placed it on the floor in front of him and slid the spindle end into the center hole. "Now watch, because I want you to be properly impressed here." She flicked the lower disk, then the top one in the opposite direction. "The enchantments are opposites, and the counter action—"

"Makes heat." He grinned. "You made this?"

"I did." The warmth flowed immediately from the device, removing the chill from their part of the shop and spreading out in a wave. "Now that you've seen how clever I am, I'll go and fetch Hadja's basket." She felt certain it would hold something that could help him. Hadja had a different, alien sort of power, and Satina both admired and feared it.

She reached the shop front and glared through the broken window at the town square. The fountain drew the children like flies. Without a stranger perched there, the town's youngest members hung around the water, splashed feet, hands and each other in the spray. The cats vanished from the streets. The play was innocent enough. She'd seen similar scenes, certainly. But overnight, the games had adopted an insidious addition.

The children all wore something blue. A kerchief, a shirt, a scrap of cloth torn from the hem of someone's dress when no eyes were looking—today Westwood's children played at being Starlights.

Satina plucked the basket from the rubble and turned her back on the town. She picked her way back to Marten and found him examining the disks on her warmer. He'd stopped the spinning, but the whole store was warm enough by now, and the effect would last for a few minutes before dispersing. She let him finish the inspection, squatted beside him and poked through the contents of Hadja's basket.

"Well?" She questioned him when he'd set the spindle back into the spool. "What do you think?"

"The broach was an allurement charm."

"Something like that, for certain."

"Where did you get it?"

"I dug it up." She hadn't expected that particular question, or the slightly accusing tone. "Hadja sent you some salve, a bandage, and what looks like a dried newt." She held up the desiccated thing.

"I think that one's a joke," he said. "You do much digging?"

"From time to time."

"You know you owe me a story still."

It wasn't all she owed him, and it didn't look like he'd be open for business anytime soon. "Yes, I do."

"Are you going to tell me?"

"Can you walk on that leg?"

"Sure. It's just a bit sore." He patted it and winced, but his eyes glinted at her and his smile curled, back to normal and full of wicked humor. "Are we going somewhere?"

"Yes." She handed him the salve and put the newt back in the basket. "Once you're fixed up a bit."

"Where?"

She grinned. It was her turn to be cryptic. Something about the way his eyes squinted told her he didn't mind. She unrolled a bandage and answered with more mystery, "To the nearest pocket."

Chapter Eleven

He had more secrets as well, her Marten. They included a small rift just a short ways out of town in the opposite direction of their stairway. He hadn't mentioned the escape route the day the Starlights had come to town, even though it would have been the quickest path away. Perhaps, it had been too permanent an escape? She let herself imagine he hadn't wanted her too far gone—even then.

He walked with a trace of a limp, but Hadja's medicine had obviously offered some relief. She hadn't missed him daubing the stuff on his cheek either, confirming her suspicion about the dark bruise there. If she'd been remotely proficient with a weapon, she might have called Vane out directly. As it was, her mind chewed on a plan to rid them all of the bastard for good.

This pocket barely had room for them to stand. It encompassed a space between two slender trees, and the trunks took up most of the real estate inside the bubble. Marten leaned against one of them and raised one eyebrow at her—her cue to surprise him.

She put her hands forward and caressed the filmy wall. Through it, Satina felt the other pockets waiting. She caught a flash of the ruins nearby, the staircase, the last pocket she'd stepped through by the Shade port. Her most recent visits filtered past and she saw more distant bubbles. A waterfall drifted past where she'd spent a night after dropping off the boy. It had only been a muddy trickle in ordinary space, but in the pocket, the water raged over the rocks and sang of a river that once was. She caught a whiff of the air there, clean and charged, before the bubbled shifted away again.

She rifled through them, looking for Henry.

It took concentration, picking a specific pocket. It took power, and she still had a long month ahead on limited dust. Usually she'd let the pockets choose for her, fly on a whim to a random location and trust fate to put her where she was needed most. But today she had a destination selected, and thanks to her special tie with Henry, the correct pocket presented itself without overmuch strain.

Satina snagged it with her mind and anchored the link. She wove the two bubbles together in space, so that the membranes just touched. Once the connection was fixed, she held it with only her memories of the place and her bond with Henry. He waited on the other side.

She kept one palm against the pocket edge and used the other to wave for Marten's attention. She had it now, they could step right through. First, she needed to warn him about her watchdog.

"Follow me." How did you explain something like Henry? "Stay behind me and don't make any sudden moves."

He didn't respond, and she took a deep breath and stepped through, keeping the two pockets together so that Marten would have time to cross as well. It required just enough concentration to delay her reaction when Henry charged. Marten stepped over and directly into the path of the hurtling gargoyle.

To her eyes, Henry romped in their direction, wagging his long, forked tail merrily. She could only imagine what Marten saw. The look on his face gave her some clue, though he followed her directions and made no sudden movement. Then again, he might have been paralyzed with fear. Henry's size, his armored flesh and long, curling talons had registered. She could tell by the way his lips moved, by the way he said, "g-g-g."

"Henry, sit!"

"Gargoyle." Marten got the word out once Henry had stopped his charge and settled on his haunches obediently, his leathery wings arching out to either side in a slow flutter.

"Yes." Satina watched her stony friend carefully. His initial reaction had been friendly for her benefit, but now his black eyes flicked from her to Marten, and his front fangs protruded just at the tips from under a slightly curled upper lip. "Henry, this is my friend, Marten."

The gargoyle rumbled an answer.

"Friend, Henry."

The marble nose flared and twitched. His muzzle turned to point directly at them.

"If you meant to be rid of me," Marten spoke softly. "There are other ways—nicer ways."

"He's fine." Satina stepped between them and approached the monster who guarded her thistledown. "See?" She stood on tiptoe and scratched Henry behind his pointed ear. He moaned and lowered his head.

"You know," Marten said. Now awe tinted his words. "I think it's time for that story now."

They lay on their backs in the tramped down patch where Henry had spent a good three minutes chasing his tail. Overhead, white tufts of thistledown floated beneath a blazing, blue sky. Everything glowed golden and otherworldly, and the scent of blossoms drifted on the same currents that swirled the fluff.

"So the custodian found you in a basket on her doorstep," Marten said. He chewed on a stem and fiddled with the heap of fluff they'd collected into a pile between them. "And you have no idea where you came from. It makes so much sense."

"That's not funny."

"It's a bit cliché."

"Maybe."

He ran his fingers through the down, then turned on his side, propping himself up on one elbow. "Well it explains how you know so little about pretty much everything we are."

"What?" She sat up. "I'm the one who has a gargoyle, remember?"

"Right." Marten laughed, but he didn't move from the relaxed pose, just gazed off toward the edge of the pocket. In the distance, far beyond the membrane, stood a perfectly preserved castle. Three stout, black towers broke the horizon, surrounded by a circuit of crenellated wall. "What about that? What do you know about that?"

"I told you. I've tried to get there, but I can't find the pocket." The one they lounged in ended at the far boundary of the thistledown patch. "Henry flies there, though. I've seen him pop in from that direction."

"And outside the pocket?"

"I can't step out here. It only leads to other bubbles."

"We should tell Hadja about that."

"Why?" Her frustration leaked into her voice, and Henry perked up, lifting his head from the long thistles and rumbling a warning. "Easy, go back to sleep." The gargoyle had allowed Marten's presence on her word, but he hadn't warmed to the strange man in his territory.

"You see, you should know why."

"I'm not blind, Marten. Hadja has more skill than any human I've met, but she still is human."

"And everything you know about us, about yourself, comes from humans."

"So what?"

"So you know what they know about us, but not what we know about us."

That stumped her. His point had implications that made her nervous. If there were secrets, things the blooded kept from humans, she wouldn't know them. True, but she'd found the pockets on her own. She'd spent enough time with the Gentry that she considered herself an expert, and she'd made strong allies amongst them. And no matter how self-important he sounded, she'd have bet her thistledown he didn't shift pockets as well as she did, that he'd been impressed by her skill, and of course, by Henry. Gargoyles were thought to be as extinct as unicorns or elves. No gobelin builders outlived the Final War, and all the surviving castles were supposed to be in ruins.

"Satina?" He sat up now, and she'd been too lost in thought to notice the shift in his position, or the shift in his mood. Now he looked directly at her, and his eyes shimmered and flashed with something she should have been sharp enough to pick up on. "Hadja would be a good teacher."

"Would she?" Something about his expression made her feel suddenly warm. His lips twisted into a smirk, and she found herself staring at them. His skin sparkled in the pocket, and his hair looked less gray-blond and more straw gold.

"So would I."

"What's that?"

His hand lifted and he brushed the free tendrils of her hair back from her face, tucking the strands behind her ear. A storm of electricity rocketed out from that soft touch. She felt it in her spine, her toes, her all over.

"I could teach you," he leaned in until only inches separated them. "Things too."

His lips just brushed hers and the storm started again. Her hands clenched into balls of unspent energy. She twisted to position herself closer, to give the sparks something to do. Marten moved excruciatingly slow. He pressed his mouth against hers again, traced her jaw with his fingers, and then opened her lips. Satina's chest seized. Heat washed from his kiss down into her body. Marten's hand moved to her neck. He kissed deeper, but still painfully slowly.

She'd never imagined feeling like this. This wasn't in any of the storybooks—and she'd read a lot of storybooks. She'd been raised in an archive, after all. Marten kissed her leisurely. He drew out each touch, played with his lips against hers, and the pocket boiled around them.

Satina's hands bound up into his shirt, clutching at him both for purchase and to somehow drag him closer. She hung from him, dizzy with the sensations she'd never felt before, drunk and weak and completely at the mercy of whatever he chose to do next.

He pulled away enough to tip his head down and trail a soft kiss along her neck. Satina's spine arched as the shock tingled through her. Too much sensation—she felt herself falling into it, and knew she'd be lost and helpless if it went on, went farther. And she wanted it to go farther.

"Marten," her voice pleaded, but whether for him to stop or go on, remained ambiguous. A spark of fear lit when his fingers traced the neckline of her gown. It gave her enough courage to clarify. "Wait."

She shook all over. Her breathing came too fast and shallow to provide much air, and her eyes had teared suddenly and without provocation. She tried to focus, to form rational thoughts, but everything blurred at the edges. He had her ensorcelled.

"What is it?" Marten's words came out weak and swollen with feelings held back. "Satina?"

He placed his hand under her chin and lifted so that she had to meet his gaze. Real tears fell now, and he frowned at them, at whatever he saw in her eyes. It only made her cry harder. Her shoulders slumped forward, and Marten settled an arm across them, pulled her in to sob against his shirt. He smelled like thistledown and magic, mysterious and dangerous. Satina breathed him in and wept for no good reason.

"I'm sorry." She caught her breath enough to squeak out an apology, but the sound of it only made her cheeks burn. He'd think she was ridiculous, a child, like Maera.

"Don't be." He brushed his hand down her hair again, but the gesture was stiff now, controlled. She heard him sigh before he stood up, and the space he left behind chilled her. "I'm an imp, Satina. I'm used to rejection."

"I—no." That hadn't been her intention, had it? She could see the defensiveness in his stance though. He'd definitely taken it that way, and now she got to look at his back, at the sharper set of his shoulders. When he spoke again, it was to the distance, to the castle, maybe to the past or something even farther beyond the edge of their pocket.

"Why did you become a Granter?"

"To help people." But she'd hurt him, she could hear it dripping from his words. When he turned to look at her, his eyes glistened with it. Her chest panged for him. She wanted to explain it, to tell him, she'd only wanted to breathe, had only gotten scared, but her voice wouldn't come. Her words refused to save them.

"Why?" His lips twisted around the question. His mood had fallen past pleasant now. There would be no reaching out, no more kissing.

"I don't know. I guess it just seemed right...and good. Granters are good. They help people find happiness. I don't understand what could be wrong about that."

"I bet you don't."

"What is that supposed to mean?" She knew he lashed out, that she'd hurt him, but the tone of his voice still stung. The condescension, the complete dismissal of her skills made her fists knot for new reasons.

"It means you live your whole life like it's a storybook."

"So what?"

"So—so what?" He left his mouth open and stared at her. His jaw slid a little back and forth and then he snapped it shut. "So what? The stories you're living for were not meant for us, Satina. Don't!" He put both his hands up and shook his head. "Don't argue. You know this much. Who wins in your storybooks? The Granter?"

She wanted to say yes, to insist that the good side always won, but she could see in his expression that he meant something else, that he'd only mock whatever she answered.

"Does the Granter ever get a happy ending, Satina? How many stories have an imp as the hero?"

"Of course not." She blurted it, and then clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Yeah. I didn't think so."

"But..." But what? Did she have an answer for that?

"In your stories, Satina, we are no better than slaves. That is what you choose by Granting. Slavery."

"That's ridiculous." Now she stood up. Henry lifted his head from the thistledown and growled, but she waved him back to sleep. "Nobody makes me do anything."

"Maybe not, but what do you get for it? A morsel of bread for your trouble? What about a kind word, a room with a decent bed, a little respect?"

A little respect. No, not that. She got more requests, sometimes demands—she thought of Maera then and bit her lip—sometimes tantrums. But to ask for the human world's respect would be asking them to overcome generations of fear and mistrust. She could hear Marten's thoughts on that matter without them being said. Hadn't they earned it yet?

"I didn't think so."

She wished he'd stop saying that. "So why bother with me then?" Maybe she could steer the conversation back in their direction, away from huge truths and generalization. "If Granting makes me such a sellout, why didn't you send me away the first time I came to town?"

"Because you're dangerous."

"Excuse me?" She'd expected a very different answer. "I'm what?"

"You need someone to straighten you out."

"Oh, and that's you?"

"Obviously not." He sniffed and stuck his chin in the air. "I thought maybe Hadja could do it."

"A human? I thought you just said—"

"Hadja isn't a normal human. You see? If you'd been taught properly, you'd know all that."

"Now, I'm the ignorant fool again? What I know or don't know is none of your business. I get by just fine on my own! In fact, I'm damn good at what I do!"

The shouting was too much for Henry. He got up and trundled to Satina's side. It worked perfectly to emphasize her point. She reached out and patted the stony neck. I have a gargoyle, the gesture said. What do you have?

"None of my business." Marten lowered his voice, but his eyes flashed yellow. "Your carelessness could get us all into trouble. You have to see that. You're too trusting. You took a human through the pockets, Satina. That kind of thing puts every one of the blooded at risk."

"The Gentry had no problem helping me."

"The Gentry are safe inside their pockets...at least, most of them are."

"That's not fair." The fiend. The fluttering of bloody wings. Satina whispered, "That wasn't my fault."

"No. But it could have been." Marten's voice softened, but he kept going, kept right on making her feel like a traitor. "This is not a story, Satina. It's real, and it's serious. People can get hurt."

People already had. She took a breath and leaned more of her weight against Henry's bulk. "I know it's not a story," she said. "What you mean, is that I'm no hero. That I don't get a happy ending."

"Not likely." He laughed, sharp and with bite. "Not any more than I'm prince charming."

They stood in silence while the thistledown wafted between them. Then Henry woofed and bumped her with his nose, breaking the spell. Marten stooped and picked up his pile of down, nothing more to say on his part, and what answer could she possibly give? What did her hopes mean now, in the face of his absolute contempt for everything she did?

Skinner. She'd come to town thinking he was the villain, and he—maybe all their kind—painted that label on people like her. Not likely. Not taught properly.

She tucked a few stray wisps of fluff into her own bag and then reached for the bubble wall. It was time to leave in so many ways she couldn't begin to count them.

Chapter Twelve

They stepped out of the pocket and into company. The two trees that marked the rift squeezed them closer together, and beyond, a ring of Starlights lounged to all sides. Vane stood up slowly, as if he'd been waiting a long time and still saw no reason to rush. His smile had a dagger behind it. She could almost taste his malice.

"Goodmother," he said. Cheerily, a neighbor's greeting. "There you are."

"Vane." She nodded as curtly as she could manage. Some part of her relaxed at the sight of the gang. She had accounts to settle with the man before she left this town behind her. "Good afternoon."

"I've been so hoping for a chance to talk with you." The rest of his gang held perfectly still. Not one hand touched a weapon, but the swords existed, the potential for violence thrummed through the moment.

"How nice that you caught us then," she picked careful words. "Marten was just heading back to town. He has a shop to tend, but I'm perfectly free to chat now."

She saw a flicker of indecision on the gang-leader's face. If he'd meant to detain them both, he'd have to argue outright. Not the best way to start a conversation if he meant to gain anything from it. Of course, if he only meant them harm, her parry would just be ignored. She held her breath and waited.

"I could use some help at the shop," Marten said. His voice had less conviction. His shoulders already hunched into his customary submission. This was what he wanted her to learn, how to hide, how to make herself small and stay out of harm's way.

"I believe Vane and I have some things to discuss alone." She didn't look at him, kept her eyes riveted on Vane's. This time, his smile held more than malice. He recognized her ploy and he respected it. Marten had been wrong about that much.

"Of course," Vane agreed. "The imp should return to tend his shop." He looked over his shoulder, made some face for his men's benefit while he waved Marten off. "Let him go."

"Satina." Marten's hand was on her sleeve. His voice pleaded with her, even just her name on his lips, but she shook her head and didn't budge.

"Don't worry about me, Marten," she said. "I'm no hero, remember?"

His hand dropped away. He stepped back, put physical distance between them to match the rift they'd already dug with their words. She didn't dare look his way, didn't have that luxury with Vane's gaze fixed upon her. Marten walked away, back to his ruined shop, and she was left to face the man who'd done the damage.

"I'm so glad we caught up with you at last," he said.

"I didn't realize I was that difficult to catch."

"Oh no," he smiled and stepped closer, looking past her now to the space between the trees. "Not at all. I only meant that the town is not large, and I'd assumed we'd have run into one another by now."

"Well, you have only been here a few days." Satina kept her voice sweet, sugary even, but she let the implications hint that she'd been here longer. In truth, they'd arrived on the shadow of her own steps.

"It's right here," he said. It took her a moment to catch his meaning. Something had him distracted. He moved past her and circled the trees and, she realized, the pocket. "Isn't it? I can't see it. Can't touch it." He stuck his arm out, straight through the shimmer that would be invisible to his eyes. Nothing happened. "Can't even touch it, and yet, you two stepped out right here, from thin air."

He waved his arm and frowned at the pocket that eluded him. For a moment, she suspected he'd forgotten her, that he'd lost himself in his frustration. The gang members shifted position nervously, and Satina began to sweat her decision to stay behind. She was vulnerable, surrounded, and Vane was clearly out of his head.

"No matter!" He snapped to attention, voice too loud and eyes still dancing between her and the trees where the pocket hid. "But we do have business to discuss, don't we?"

"Do we?" She couldn't imagine what business they had at all, except her burning desire to instruct him to stay miles away from the girl, Maera. Still, standing here with him now, Satina knew a man like Vane wouldn't even see the blacksmith's daughter. She'd be as invisible to him as the pocket he so desperately wanted.

"Yes." He feigned surprise, shock that she'd even question such a thing. "Of course. We have so much to offer one another, should we come to an understanding. I do hope we can come to an understanding."

And if they couldn't, he left no doubt that she would not be walking away from this encounter.

"I'm here listening." Her mouth had gone dry, and the words came out less smoothly than she'd have liked. "What exactly is it that you want, Vane?"

"I want us to help one another, goodmother. I want a partnership to benefit us both."

She very much doubted that, but she nodded and let him elaborate.

"You've been to the ruins near town, I assume?"

"Yes." She saw no point in lying, the whole town would know this, and she trusted none of them to have kept her secrets.

"Then you know there is power there...old power."

She did, but how he knew she couldn't guess. She pictured the menhir again, the stairway and the fiend falling toward a suspended pocket. "Yes."

"Don't you want to know how I know?"

"I did wonder."

"See this?" He closed the distance between them so rapidly that she had to grind her teeth together to keep from leaping away. Vane didn't notice. His eyes lit with a new excitement, and he thrust his Starlight symbol in her direction, as if the pendant would hold some special meaning to her. In truth, she only felt like leaning away, like putting as much distance between her body and the metal as possible. Why?

Satina blinked and looked at the symbol again. She'd seen gang leaders wearing their tags before, and never once felt this, this physical aversion to the thing.

"You feel it?" Vane's voice hissed between his teeth. Whatever he'd done to the necklace had him all a tither. "The heat? You feel it don't you?"

"I feel something." She doubted confessing exactly what would help her under the circumstances. "What is it?"

"This." He flipped the medallion over. A second necklace had been affixed to the symbol, completely hidden by the Starlight tag. This one had sigils carved into the bronze surface, it glowed with power she immediately recognized. "It finds magic." He stated it simply, with the authority of a man who is never questioned.

He had it all wrong, of course.

The bit of metal on his symbol had originally been created to repel magic. Satina recognized the sigils as if she'd drawn them herself. She could see his confusion, however, and even the use he'd put it to. Certainly, if he were in the proximity of power, the necklace would warm. Maybe it even grew hotter the closer he got, so that he could use the power in reverse to locate stationary magic.

Therein lay the problem, however. Anything, or for that matter, anyone, who had the ability to move freely, would never get close enough for him to find. His tool for locating power would push away the very thing he sought nine times out of ten.

"Amazing." She suspected awe was the correct response. Vane's smile lit up, his first genuine expression of the day. "I can see how you might use this to your advantage."

"I thought you might." He let the metal drop back to his chest, but winced visibly when it landed against his shirt, hot, screaming in defiance of Satina's power. "It has opened doors to me that otherwise would have been impossibly beyond my reach. And, as I benefit from it, so do my friends."

His doodad had him all fired up for sure, but it hadn't done enough for him. Satina could see that in his eyes. Vane wanted more than the necklace had brought him. She knew exactly where this conversation was leading, but could grasp no loophole through which to vanish. Except the pocket. If she could reach the pocket, Vane could never follow her.

"You'll have to forgive me, but with that," she gestured toward the necklace at the same time she stepped sideways, one pace closer to the pocket. "I'm not sure what value I could possibly add."

"Oh, don't tease me, Satina." His eyes hardened to glass. "I think you could be immensely helpful. This device might alert me to the proximity of power, but it can't make me see what human eyes cannot. It can't decipher for me. It can't teach."

"You want me to teach you?"

"I'm no fool, goodmother." He stated it blandly, but she might have argued just the opposite. "I know a human has limitations. I'm not asking you to make me what I am not, only to serve as whatever senses I might lack. I assure you, the honor would not be without its rewards. This is my primary project, and my right arm would answer only to me."

"Your right arm?"

The men around them shifted again. Satina was sure this was news to them, but Vane didn't care one whit. He'd offered her a position at the top of their little order, and she doubted it would have occurred to him that some might object. The pocket lay at her back now. If she was quick enough, she could get away. The more Vane talked the more that option seemed like her best choice. If he wanted her in his gang, Westwood would do just fine without her—maybe better.

Marten would certainly be better off without her. He'd made that more than clear.

As if reading her mind, Vane continued. Either he sensed her unwillingness, or just expected it, but he didn't hesitate to pull out his best weapon. "Your Skinner friend would have been the obvious choice, but he's bent on resisting. I feel bad for the poor guy." He winced visibly, exaggerating the gesture and adding a grimace. "I'd hate to have to revisit that argument, but if I must, I'm sure the boys could think of some way to persuade him."

This time their blue-booted audience chuckled. The shifting was less of nerves and more of sport, and it had a nasty edge to it. She'd seen what the first round had done to Marten, and she didn't want to imagine the second. So, Vane had wanted him first. She was second choice, and if she didn't comply, they'd have another crack at her Skinner.

Just like that it didn't matter if she had a pocket at her back. Marten wouldn't be safe if she fled, nor would Maera or Hadja or any of the idiotic children playing their naïve games in the square. Maybe she had put their kind in danger by taking a human into the pockets, blindfolded or not, but she wouldn't put this town in danger, wouldn't leave Marten to the gang's mercy. She wouldn't curl up and do nothing.

If that made her a traitor to her blood, what did she care?

She smiled and saw Vane's eyes widen. He expected her to fight as well. He expected resistance, and maybe she could use that to her advantage. "I think we just might be able to help each other after all," she said.

"I thought you'd see things my way." But he hadn't. She could read that all over his face.

Vane would get his way for now, but he'd given away too much to get it. He knew Marten was a weak spot, and he could use that against her, sure. But she knew a bit about him now as well. She knew how he'd risen to his position, how he'd used that little trinket round his neck to look more talented than he actually was. She might be able to use that right back.

Hadja would help her. Whatever Marten thought of Satina, even if Hadja agreed, the woman would still help. She wanted to fight, and now, Satina had the seed of a plan. Vane had given her the last piece to the puzzle. He wanted magic. The gang leader was fascinated by their powers, and that, they could certainly use.

If she was right about the things in Hadja's cellar, if she was right about her dream and of its hinting about the pockets, they might be able to use it to rid the town of Starlights—or Shades—for good. If she was wrong, well, then she was as good as dead.

Vane stuck out his hand, and grinned. She took it, her own trembling in his harsh grip. You didn't make deals with gangs. Not if you meant to ever get away from them. You didn't smile calmly and shake hands when you had ideas in your head like she did. Not if you meant to get out alive. Satina might not know what she should about her blood or her kind, but she damn sure knew enough about gangs to be scared.

When Vane reached into his pocket and pulled out a nice, blue kerchief, when he held it out for her to take, scared didn't even begin to cover it. Her fingers took the cloth, but her heart resisted. The still voice in her mind whimpered as she tied the Starlight colors over her hair.

The first thing he wanted was a look at the pocket. She should have expected that. She steeled herself against the wave of guilt and led him to the rift. This time, she didn't even suggest a blindfold. She didn't need to guess at Vane's answer, and she worked for him now.

He kept one hand on her sleeve, twisted in like a screw in case she tried to slip from his grasp. His voice shivered when he barked out orders, and Satina chewed on that fact and tried to put it to her use. He was scared of it, this pocket, and as dumb as she was by her kind's standards, Vane knew far less than she did. She could use that too.

"I only have the strength to take one of you at a time across." Her first lie would save her a crowded pocket and a whole lot of grief. "And this pocket is very small. We could try a different one—"

"This one." Vane tightened his claws. "Just us, but keep in mind my men have orders to march straight to your friend's shop if I don't step back out of this thing."

"Of course." So much for feeding him to Henry. "Just hold on tight. I don't want to lose you in the membrane." She didn't know where that one came from, but it made his eyes widen enough that she was glad she'd thought of it—even though his fingers dug into her arm now.

She reached a hand out and stroked the boundary.

"What does it feel like?" Vane's voice oozed envy. "Can you feel it?"

"Silky," that part was true. "A bit of a tingle." She'd feed him the real stuff when it was good. His face gave everything away. He wanted to feel it, and she knew what that kind of wanting did—wanting what you'd never have. Greed. It would make him vulnerable.

"What do you do to open it?"

"I have to focus." True to a point. After traveling the pockets regularly for any amount of time, the focus happened so fast you didn't notice. After living from one to the other, you just walked right in. She knew that wouldn't impress him, however, and she needed him very impressed. "Then I tear a little doorway." That part was just plain silly, but he ate it up.

"Is it difficult?"

"You get used to it." She made her face look stern, pretended to concentrate on the place where her hand rested, and then sighed and let her shoulders slump a little. "There. Now we can just slip through."

"Will it hurt?" He stood very tall and said it as if it didn't matter, as if it were only a point of curiosity.

"No." Lying about that would be quickly disproved. Her story had twisted into a complexity that she'd have to keep close track of. It would be far too easy to stumble now. "Just stay close to me."

She stepped through the pocket. Vane's hand pulled at her sleeve, but only for a second. Then the man followed, pulled into the pocket by her passage. That much she hadn't needed to lie about. He wouldn't be able to cross without her. No human could. Only a handful had ever seen inside, had ever shared the Gentry and the blooded's understanding of what once was. Here in the pockets, one could gaze upon the kingdoms gone before. Here, the Old Magic tinted the whole world with gold.

Even Vane, self important, violent, arrogant Vane, looked around the pocket with awe and understanding on his face. They'd lost this somehow. Depending on whom you believed, through acts very similar to the Shade and Starlight conflict. Even with the glimmer of tears on his eyelids, Satina doubted Vane would make that connection. She doubted this view, this exposure, would do anything aside from strengthen his resolve.

She knew about gangs, if nothing else.

"Don't move much," she felt compelled to warn him, didn't care to be bumping against one another in the tiny space. "This one is teeny. I'll move us somewhere else."

"Wait." He clutched at her arm, but this time his fingers didn't dig. "Where are we going?"

"A bigger pocket." She saw her mistake in his eyes. Here was one lie she should have woven. Vane hadn't understood the way they moved at all. He'd thought this was it, before she'd slipped. "Maybe we should pop back out. Your men—"

"Will wait a bit more." He nodded and pushed at her arm. "Go on."

Satina made no show of it the second time and she picked a pocket that she knew he'd already been made aware of. She snagged the image of the menhir and pulled the bubble walls tight. With no more than a look for Vane, she dragged him through to the spot where the fiend woman had probably gasped her last breath at one of his men's hands.

The caravan had moved on. She'd known it would have, but even so a tiny part of her sagged in disappointment. The Gentry could have torn Vane limb from limb, might have agreed to help her save Marten. But only an empty courtyard waited for her now. The standing stone glowed and twisted, but she doubted Vane could see that. He dropped his grip on her arm and stepped in the pillar's direction just the same.

"The ruins."

Satina sighed. This too, had been a mistake. He'd never let the place go now. She doubted he would have anyway, and to give him another pocket, a new place, seemed an even worse alternative. The Gentry band had left their wagon behind, or perhaps, the straw-filled cart had been there before they came. Now it sat off below the stairway, and she could only imagine the blood stains.

She wouldn't go near the spot.

"We should go back." She startled him out of a trance. He'd closed in on the stone, but now he turned reluctantly and nodded.

"You could move this way, between pockets, and we'd never know where you were."

"Your men."

"Yes." He brushed his hands against the side of his tunic and marched straight to her. This time, he held out his arm, bent and courtly, for her to take. Much worse, she felt, than his vise-like clawing at her arm. The man intended to play the escort now, to step out as if he were the one in command of their travels.

She slipped her hand only onto his arm, keeping distant without overtly refusing the gesture. When she pulled the bubbles tight, she imagined, just for a moment, letting him slip away at random. He'd pop out perhaps in some Shade city, or over the deep sea. And that would leave Marten at his goons' mercy. She sighed, and led him back to the twin trees and swiftly out into normal space before he could object.

The gang applauded. Vane took a little bow, and then, with much fanfare, he stepped away from her and threw out an arm, dipping into a phony conciliatory indication that they should honor her in turn. They did, but hesitantly. Satina refused to bow, though she saw in Vane's eyes that he wanted her to accept the homage. She tried to smile and hoped it would satisfy him.

It did not, but he maintained the act just the same. He snapped upright and grinned at his gang, at her, at the trees and the empty road. "Gentlemen!" He bellowed to the sky, to the whole world of secret places that would now fall into his self-claimed domain. "We have succeeded beyond my greatest hope!"

We have succeeded. She knew what that meant. A chill crept into her spine. It climbed slowly, like a snake, winding up to the base of her skull. When Vane threw a heavy arm across her shoulders, when he pulled her in to his side and his gang cheered for them, the cold exploded into her brain. She turned to ice.

Marten, she thought, Marten would be safe now. But from the look of things, she was officially a Starlight.

Chapter Thirteen

The cottage sweltered under the blaze of Hadja's cooking fire, but it couldn't warm her. She'd ripped the blue cloth from her hair the moment she entered, flopped onto one of the stools and fumed at it, only barely resisting the temptation to toss the thing into the flames. It wouldn't help Marten, or the town, to rebel against Vane openly.

"Tell me about your mirror, Hadja."

The woman grunted and continued to grind the herbs she'd chosen. A heavy stone bowl sat on the table, and she twisted and beat at the dried plant matter with a matching pestle. "I see where you're going there," she said. "And I agree. It's not doing me much good in that hole."

"So it is a piece of the glass around your neck?"

"Problem is," She answered the question with a dismissive nod, confirming Satina's suspicions about her appearance shifting abilities. "That I'm not the one who made it work like that."

"The mirror isn't ensorcelled?"

"Sure it is, sure. Why else would I drag that heavy thing all the way home." Now she winked and chuckled silently. Only the rhythmic shaking of her shoulders gave her mirth away. "But we'd have to tweak it to show what we needed, and the only one I know who can do that..."

The cottage door flew open. It banged hard against the wall and bounced back, smacking the outstretched hand of one irate partial-imp. Marten's expression was enough to make Satina cringe lower on her stool, but the tone of his voice cut even deeper.

"You joined a gang?" His upper lip curled like a pony's and his eyes glowed yellow without even a pocket to aid them. He pinpointed the kerchief on the table and recoiled as if it were a snake, as if it might strike out at any second. "You joined a gang. Joined them." He threw up his hands and whirled toward the fire. Two steps in that direction and he spun back around so fast Satina flinched. "Are you mad?"

"Am I mad?" She stood and faced him down. "I'm not the one screaming!" Except of course, now she was. Now, they both were.

"You joined Vane." He pointed at the kerchief, waved one curled finger in her face in a gesture she couldn't even guess at. "You, he, gang!" He snarled again, turned back to the fire, and took a broom upside the head. Hadja whacked him with it a second time, and when he opened his mouth to snarl at her she thumped him in the chest with the handle.

"Silence, you!" She threw the broom on the bed and glowered at him. "Shame on you, barging in here, screaming at the girl. Where are your manners?"

"M—manners? Hadja she—"

"Did what she had to." The old woman balled up her fists. Marten backed closer to the fire. "She saved your ungrateful neck is what she did, and earned us a chance of getting rid of the Starlights to boot. Not sure the one outweighs the other at the moment." She waved one of her mitts in his direction. "But we owe her either way."

"What are you saying?" He looked at Satina then, as if she'd somehow poisoned Hadja against him. "What?"

"Do you think your Vane gave her a choice? Do you think he asked her politely and she just joined right up?"

"Hadja." They spoke as if she weren't in the room, as if she had no voice of her own. Marten and his mentor stood toe to toe and glared at each other on her behalf. "He's going to hurt her."

"And if she hadn't joined he'd have hurt you." Hadja tossed back.

His head snapped in Satina's direction. One brow arched high, and his head tilted. "What was that?"

"His men had orders to go after you if I didn't cooperate," she answered for herself and thrust her chin out while she did. He could yell all he wanted, but she had a feeling he'd have done the exact same thing in her shoes.

"I didn't ask you to protect me." He didn't shout it, but he didn't offer her any quarter either. The chill still held between them.

"Nor I you." She matched his snarl and stance. Neither of them flinched or looked away, and the cottage temperature continued to rise in more ways than one.

Hadja intervened. She sidled between them and put up her hands, one facing each combatant. "Pagh. There's no time for this now." She fixed a glare on Marten, and then one for Satina for good measure. "What's done's done. Now we have to sort out the next bit."

"Agreed." Satina stood up tall and nodded. "We need to plan."

"After," Hadja's finger swiveled in her direction. "After supper. Marten will stoke that fire, and you'll got out back and fetch me some water."

Arguing with her never seemed to be an option. Satina felt like a child again, scolded for skipping too wildly through the rows of rolled skin and paper. She sensed as well, that she was being dismissed, that Hadja had more words for Marten alone. She just couldn't decide if the woman meant to chastise him further, or if she had some secret for him, some information that would be too dangerous to share with a Starlight.

Her stomach knotted and she turned to the door, dragging her feet in hopes of catching at least a few words.

"Don't forget the bucket, dear." Hadja thrust the wooden vessel into her hands and placed one hand at the small of her back. She ushered her out the door and shut it with nothing more than a quick smile.

Drat. Satina moved off quickly, afraid to linger now in case Hadja had guessed at her plan. She trudged around the little house, swinging the bucket as she went. The moon already waned visibly, but the pump still gleamed in a fair swath of light. It cast a dark shadow across the lawn, and as Satina approached it, a large part of it shifted position.

She squeaked and dropped the bucket.

"It's me." the shadow spoke with Maera's voice. "I'm sorry."

"Maera, oh. You scared me to death."

"I'll go." The shadow shuffled away toward the long grasses ringing the cottage.

"It's fine." She bent and snatched up the bucket again. "Come on back." Had the blacksmith put another bruise on the girl? She needed her in the moonlight to be certain. Something had Maera scared, if she was hiding by the well at this hour. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No. I'm fine, really. I just wanted a quiet spot." Maera slunk into the grasses before she could argue. They closed around her, but waved in a line as the girl wandered back toward her father's shed.

Satina frowned after her. She needed to help the girl, not to woo Vane, but to escape or cope or somehow free herself from whatever she found so terrifying at home. Maybe once the gang was gone, should they pull off that miracle, she'd be free to focus on Maera. With Vane out of the picture, perhaps, the girl would be able to see things more clearly.

She filled the bucket and returned as quickly as possible without sloshing. The cottage door stood ajar, and Marten ducked out as she came around the front of the house. He looked at her, but his face remained blank. Only his eyes flashed in the moonlight before he walked away, down the herb path and into the night.

Hadja's head poked out from the doorway. She found Satina and waved an old hand for her to hurry. When Satina reached the door, the old woman took the water from her. They settled into the nightly routine, Hadja cooking while she tidied, put away the woman's tools and laid out dishes. Neither of them spoke until the water hung in a pot over the fire, half way toward becoming soup.

"Marten will fix the shards for us." Hadja squatted by the cauldron and sliced thin bits of onion into the water. "But we'll be on our own for the rest of it."

"Probably for the best." Satina chewed her lip and stacked two bowls on the table. She wiped at a dusty spot and shrugged. Vane would suspect them anyway, if she asked for Marten's help. He knew she'd only joined to keep the imp out of things, and Marten had already resisted enough to make any sudden interest on his part look shady. "What about the Gentry though?"

"He said he'd try."

"Well he's just falling over himself to be helpful, isn't he?"

"He'll come through." Hadja grunted and her voice turned toward scolding again. "That one's lived enough hardship in his lifetime. He's earned a right not to chase after more."

"I know." She bit her lip, minded her tongue and tried not to think less of him for it. He'd said it in the pocket, no more than I'm prince charming, but she hadn't wanted to believe it for a second. She'd wanted him to act the hero, and shame heated her face at the thought. A man was who he was. "I just wish he'd stand up for himself."

"Maybe, he's been too busy standing up for others."

Maybe. She wanted to believe that too, didn't she? She was supposed to see the best in people. She was the Granter. Then again, according to Marten, that made her a complete idiot. The pressure built in her chest, behind her eyes, and she started for the door, for an escape from the heat of the cottage and the company of her host.

"I'm going to wash up." She tossed it back over her shoulder as she slipped out, heard Hadja grunt as she shut the door and stumbled toward the weeds. Shelter. Calm. It seemed as good a place to hide as any. She dove into the field like it were water, waded out far enough that the cottage lights didn't reach and sank to her knees.

Her hands covered her face while she cried as quietly as possible. How had she come to this? A gang member! Ignorant of all that someone with her blood should know! In love with an Imp who... She choked on a sob and dropped her hands. In love? Oh no. No, not already, not with someone who...someone. Someone who thought she was a traitor to her blood.

She tilted her head back and stared at the moon, letting the tears fall freely. The herbs scratched and shifted in the breeze, and somewhere she thought she heard the rustle of another late night wanderer in the patch. Maera hadn't gone straight home, then. They both sought the comfort of Hadja's secret garden tonight. They both let the herbs and moonlight nurse their broken hearts, perhaps.

And perhaps, that made her just as foolish, just as wild-eyed and childish as the blacksmith's misguided daughter. She felt certain at least Marten would agree. The one person in Westwood she couldn't help, the one person who saw through her goodmother façade and labeled her a fraud. Suddenly the only person, unlikely as it was, that mattered.

Chapter Fourteen

She met Vane at the inn first thing in the morning. As instructed, she wore the kerchief, she made a public allegiance to the very thing she wanted to destroy. She couldn't look at Marten's shop. The broken window, the sparkle of glass on cobblestones, still teased her from her memory as she stomped up the steps of the Welcome Inn for the first time. She didn't need to look.

Once inside the building, however, look was all she could manage. Surely once, the tables here had sat in orderly fashion. Now they clumped in one corner, amidst the rubble of broken chairs and surrounded by fat barrels of the landlord's ale. Suds dried on the floor, and flies hummed everywhere. A stout stone chimney divided the far wall, but she could see little of the fireplace. Starlights blocked it from view.

They perched on the tables, leaned rickety chairs back onto two legs, and shouted orders at the women attempting to deliver food and drinks without getting too close to the patrons. The inn, while still functional, looked to have fared only slightly better than Marten's shop. If the weary expressions the staff wore could be believed, at least here, the Starlights were not eagerly received.

A fat man waddled through an archway through which the steam and aroma of the kitchen drifted. He wore an apron, smudged with grease and breakfast leavings. His eyes sagged under too much stress and too little sleep. Still, they sparked at the sight of her. For one moment, Satina saw hope there. She wanted to smile, to reassure the man, but Vane's voice killed the moment, sent the innkeeper back into despair.

"There she is," Vane spoke loud enough Marten probably heard next door. "My goodmother. Come here, Satina. Have a drink on the house." Not his house, but then, what did that matter to a man who believed he owned the world?

He closed in on her, wrapping that possessive arm around her shoulders and steering her into the trashed main room. His gang glared and whispered, but Vane beamed. He paraded her in front of them while the barmaids looked at their toes and shuffled back to join their boss in the kitchen. She'd betrayed them, joined the enemy. Some Granter she was.

Marten would have lots of company now. Now the whole town would despise her. Vane would make certain of that.

☼

They hiked to the ruins from the main road, a more direct route than she'd taken with Marten, but one just as hard on the skirts. The Starlights worked as a team, helping each other over fallen trees, root tangles, and at last up the twisty slope and through the guardian trees to the castle basin. They left their women at the inn, and Satina fought to keep up with them, set her resolve and only once or twice needed the offered Starlight hand for assistance.

Once they broke through the trees, the gang spread out. Vane leaped onto a shelf of old wall and used his voice stretching trick to shout directions. He ordered them into smaller groups, and set them to the task he called "surveying." The Starlights combed the castle ruins, all eyes fixed upon the ground and alert to anything at all unusual.

"Goodmother!" He dropped from the wall and waved in her direction. "You'll be with me."

He kept four of his men with him as well, and they formed up the same way the others had. Starting in a line, Vane had them space themselves by stretching out their arms until their fingers could just touch at the tips. Then he ordered a march, eyes on the ground, down the wide avenue that led to the main courtyard, the big staircase and the menhir pocket. Exactly where she'd feared he would want her.

She walked beside him on the right, and she kept her eyes on the stones just as he'd said. But if Satina had tripped over an amulet, a sword, or a whole suit of armor, she'd have kept her mouth shut about it.

The others were too loyal for that. She heard shouts from across the ruins long before they reached the courtyard. Vane smiled and stood taller. He thrust his shoulders back and snapped for one of their party to go and fetch the news. They'd be tearing at the ground before noon. Would they find anything? Despite the chill of that idea, Satina felt a stir of excitement, the same thrill she always felt at the start of a dig, though her experience with them had been strictly informal and solitary.

If her meager efforts could uncover the brooch, the sword hilt, a few small treasures she'd traded away in the port, what could a whole, organized gang discover? She tried not to think about it, tried even harder not to wonder at the magic that might be lurking in a place like this. They marched into the open and she focused on the stairway instead.

Had the fiend survived? Would the Gentry think twice before stepping out of their safe world again? What did this one have to offer anyway?

"Satina!" Vane stood halfway across the courtyard. He looked back at her and scowled. Behind him, the standing stone watched over its pocket. It glowed softly and probably less accusingly than she imagined.

At least she could spend some time with it. Maybe in those twisty symbols, she could find an answer to her problems. Maybe the menhir itself could help her rid the ruins of Starlights. A spark of hope drove her feet toward the gang leader. He meant for her to help him, but maybe, if she played things the right way, she could find her own help here. If there was an answer anywhere, Satina would have bet it was etched into that glassy, gray surface.

She scrambled toward Vane. He walked straight through the pocket's edge as if it wasn't there. She could bolt through it. The shimmer of the membrane would be a constant reminder of that fact. It would take her less than a breath to be free of him, to leave Marten, Hadja and the whole town to their own fates.

When she passed the barrier, she had to focus, to put actual effort into not slipping inside. Not because she had any inclination to flee, but because slipping into a pocket was the natural thing to do. Walking through them went against her instincts.

Still, Vane was in charge of her now, and she sulked to his side and stared at the menhir in front of them. Dull gray here, the stone's only special attribute in normal space was the designs, and even they looked shallower and less magical by ordinary sunlight. She imagined, through human eyes, they wouldn't even glow at all.

"It looks very old." Vane stated the obvious, proved her point without realizing it. "Maybe older than the Kingdoms even."

"Maybe."

"Can you read it?"

She almost said no. Her better judgment saved her before she gave away another advantage. They needed to find ways to manipulate Vane. All she had to do was work out if knowing how to read the stone worked in their favor or against them. Hesitation, however, would look suspicious, and she'd thought long enough to have earned his frown.

"Some of it." Best to remain ambiguous whenever possible. "I might be able to decipher the rest, if I had time to examine it."

"Then take time." He relaxed his disapproval and brushed at his clothes. "I want to know as much as I can about this place."

That much worked in her favor. She wanted time with the menhir. If she could spend her days studying the sigils, maybe joining Vane's company wouldn't be all bad. If he left her alone, she could live with it for now. He ruined the fantasy as if he'd read her mind.

"When I need you elsewhere, I will call for you." He wanted his treasure, and her obedience. He made that clear, but the real treasure was in the stone to anyone with eyes that could see it.

Satina nodded, and he turned away. His men hollered from a far corner, and Vane made a show of holding out his medallion, of waving the thing in front of himself as if it were a magic magnet instead of exactly the opposite. She wanted to scoff, to decide that anyone that ignorant would be easy to manipulate after all, but a whisper of Marten's accusations kept her uncertain. To some eyes, she was equally stupid. She didn't want to underestimate her enemy the way Marten had undervalued his ally.

While Vane rejoined his Starlights, she turned to her stone. The symbols twisted and teased her. She knew only one of them, despite what she'd told Vane. Most of the markings here were far too old for her to be familiar with. Only Vision had revealed its purpose, and so she turned to it, found the curves easily and ran one finger over the lines in mid air, not quite touching the surface.

The sigil flared. Satina felt the upward thrust. She traveled out of her mortal shell and zipped up, over the trees to freedom. Here Vane could not control her. Here, she could work to her own purposes, and even as she thought it, she whisked away again. Her consciousness shot in an arrow's path straight toward Westwood.

Vision dropped her down, to right above the town's rooftops. It wound her along the stable road, past the chapel and the fountain. It hovered over Marten's shop, and she knew her thoughts had brought it there. How could the sigil not find Marten in them?

She considered directing it, pressing to control the journey and steer it away from him. Then again, she didn't really want to, and Vision, it seemed, knew her mind as well as she did. It lowered her slowly, and then, instead of slipping her through the roof, moved back toward the alley behind the shop.

Satina got a bird's eye view of her former escape route. She'd come out that back door and headed toward the blacksmith's at Marten's orders. Now she floated in the other direction toward a familiar silhouette that currently posed in full, impish fashion on top of a pile of crates. He waited, and if she knew that pose, it was for Skinner business.

She waited with him, invisible and airborne. When a cloaked figure moved up the alley, when a huge shadow crept toward Marten's post, Satina saw it first. Even under all that wool, she could identify Cygnus the blacksmith. Maera's father meeting with Marten in the back alleyways, meeting in daylight but obviously on the sly—it could only mean trouble.

"Good afternoon, Cygnus." Marten bowed low, but he didn't curl, didn't slump his shoulders or fold into anything like humility.

"Skinner." The blacksmith's voice rumbled, and Marten cringed.

"Don't announce it to the whole town." He hopped from the crate and bounced closer to the man.

"What do you want?" Cygnus growled, but his head turned guiltily. He looked back over his shoulder.

"What I want isn't really important, now. Is it? I think we both know that."

"I don't have time for riddles."

"Then let's talk about what you want." Marten's cackle lifted up and swirled around her. Satina felt it like a sting. He was up to something, working the blacksmith this time, but definitely working. When Cygnus leaned in, when he whispered his desire to the imp, her mind recoiled. Vision swept her away again, back over his town, across the fields and forest, and straight into Vane's clutches.

Chapter Fifteen

Hadja had the fire really crackling. She'd stuffed the pan with coals and had some kind of meat roasting. Possibly rabbit, from the scent wafting to the rafters. The flames cast the cabin walls into patterns of light and shadow, and the two women bent low over the half table and chewed on their plan.

"Marten has agreed to ask the Gentry for help." Hadja made her voice light, had learned early on the Skinner was a touchy topic. "If we can have them waiting in the pocket, it would certainly help."

"Help?" Satina snorted. She ignored the faint twinge at the mention of the imp and focused on Hadja's success. The older woman had much better luck getting him to cooperate. "I don't see how we can do this without them."

"It would be tough." It would be impossible, but Hadja had a deep vein of optimism.

"It's good he'll do it."

"Yes."

They sat quietly for a second. Hadja was waiting for her to confess about Marten, and Satina had been stubbornly refusing for almost a week. The longer they stayed quiet, though, the more she was at risk of blurting or asking about him. Instead, she changed the subject.

"Tell me about the symbols in the cellar."

"Huh." Hadja grunted and popped off her stool. She waddled more than she needed to on the way to the cauldron, played feeble whenever it was her turn to avoid a subject.

This time Satina didn't let her. She got up and followed into the living room. "You said the gangs stole the symbols from something older? Maybe the marks on the menhir are from the same time."

"Maybe? Of course they are." Hadja sighed and settled beside her pot. "The Powers themselves may have carved those marks, Satina. You ought to be far more careful with them."

"Who are the Powers?" She ignored Hadja's shock, the little gasp. She'd grown to expect the reaction to her stupidity, but it didn't matter how ignorant she'd been, she needed answers now. "Tell me."

"Who are the Powers? What are they? Before the Final War, the Powers were everything—at least to us."

"Us? To humans?"

"To Magic folk. Don't look so surprised, goodmother. You've worked this much out already."

She had. Hadja worked magic despite her lack of blood, and she couldn't miss it living with the woman. But she didn't understand how, or where the power came from. "Humans used magic before the war?"

"Not all of them. Magic is earned, not born. Sure, you with the blood have a different deal. You fared better than we did, when the Powers left, but make no mistake, all magic comes from the same place."

"From these Powers?"

"From darkness and light. Yes."

"Shade and Starlight?"

"Perversions. Memories of things that actually had substance. The gangs know less about real magic than..."

"Than I do."

"It's not your fault."

"I know." She was damn tired of hearing it though. "So the Powers left, and humans lost their magic?"

"Everyone lost some. That was the price of what we did, the real cost of the Final War. Not the castles falling down, not the Kingdoms fracturing. We lost our connection to the Powers, and all magic dimmed."

"Except in the pockets."

Hadja snorted.

"Why did they go?"

"Who knows, really? Maybe the war, maybe just a whim of the Powers. No way to tell now."

"None of the Gentry know?"

"If they do, they aren't telling. When the pockets formed after the Final War, the magical races, the ones that had chosen not to fight, either died out or fled into them. They can't live magic-free anymore than we can go without breathing. Not for long anyways."

"And the ones that did fight? The elves and such?"

"Nothing left of them by that time."

Satina chewed her lip and thought about the Gentry. All the nobler races killed in the Final War, and what was left? Fiends and fauns and their ilk, would Marten be able to convince them to help? That might very well rest on the final fate of their fiend. If the woman had died, wasn't he taking a big risk just going to meet with them?

She fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, pulling at the loose strings that only got more plentiful every day she trekked with the Starlights to the dig site. Vane had ordered a road built, but so far, he'd kept the majority of his manpower directed toward the three separate digs underway. So far, he'd let her spend most of her time with the menhir, had only dragged her away when his group needed direction.

She'd bluffed her way through that and managed not to give him anything solid, but his patience with her would not hold forever, and his gang members liked her even less.

They had a ghost of a plan, and it relied on so many things going right. Satina's stomach clenched despite the delicious aroma filling the room. She'd lost her appetite again. Nerves. They almost balanced out her goodmother metabolism. She'd be down to a smaller dress if they didn't get it over with soon.

Soon. And then what? She couldn't remain in Westwood if Marten stayed mad at her, but worse than that, she wasn't sure she could leave it, leave him, either. She sighed and pulled herself to her feet with the aid of Hadja's sleeping pallet. Sleep she needed more than food, no matter how delicious.

"I'm not going to make it tonight, Hadj. Save me some?"

"You need to eat."

"Tomorrow." She headed for the curtain without hesitation. The bed was the bright spot of her days now. If she had to leave after, it would be back to sleeping on the ground. Who knew when she'd see a mattress again?

"Don't worry about Marten."

Satina stopped at the curtain. She held her breath, counted to five. "I wasn't."

"Well, just the same, he'll be fine."

She ducked through and let the fabric block out the old woman. The privacy it offered was illusory in a space as small as Hadja's cottage, but it made her feel secluded at least. It hid her face, if nothing more. Somehow the old woman still guessed at her thoughts. Somehow, she still plucked the nerve every chance she got, as if she feared leaving it alone would let Satina forget about him.

She crawled under cool blankets and tucked them in around her to keep her body heat from escaping. No matter what happened after, forgetting about Marten was something she didn't think she'd ever be able to manage.

Chapter Sixteen

She dreamed of the fiend again. This time it faded too fast, wisped away before she could snatch at any meaning. Still, when she sat up, the winged woman's screams echoed in her mind. The chill air suggested Hadja had let the fire die, which meant she'd fallen asleep before she'd had time to bank it. They were both running on their last threads. Too many late night conversations after Vane finally let Satina stagger home.

Home. She shook that thought away and pulled on her clean shift, the tattered skirt and her cincher. Her boot soles were wearing thin as well. Despite her horror at Vane's treatment of the ruins and surrounding forest, she almost hoped he'd hurry the road along. Her clothing wouldn't endure many more treks through the brush.

She tied her hair up with the blue kerchief and slid through the curtain without making a sound. Hadja snored like a bear. The old woman had buried herself so deeply under her stack of quilts that Satina would have feared for her breathing without the rattle of each snore to reassure her. She tiptoed through the main room and caught up her cloak, sliding it over her shoulders and the criss-crossed straps of her pouches.

Vane insisted on an early start each morning, and she'd learned exactly how to slip out of the cottage without making a sound, without disturbing the rhythm of Hadja's snoring. She fastened her cloak on the front step, shivering in the frigid morning air. Her steps padded against fresh dew as she trotted down between the herbs to the roadway.

He wanted them at the inn by dawn, and the sky already streaked with blush and lavender. The wet weeds gave off a sharp scent, and Satina scurried out onto the road and turned left toward town. Maera leaned against the white fence halfway between the path and her father's shed. Satina stifled a groan and trotted in the girl's direction.

"Goodmother!" Maera jumped away from the railings and met her in the middle of the road.

"Good morning, Maera. How are you?" She squinted at the girl, examined her face, but the bruise had faded, and no new marks were visible.

"What did he say?"

"I'm sorry?" Something about the way Maera blinked at her seemed familiar. The girl's hands twisted together. She shifted her weight back and forth between her feet and bit her lip.

"You did talk to him? You promised you would."

Vane. She'd forgotten the girl's request in her own struggle against the gang leader. Now she saw Maera's obsession glimmering up at her, and she had no answer that the girl would accept. She'd failed her as a Granter, but what else could she have done? Vane was the answer to no one's best wishes.

"I have talked to him, Maera." It was a partial truth, and only meant to stall the inevitable. She hadn't had time with the girl to build enough of a bond, to convince her to trust Satina's judgment where Vane was concerned. "But it's complicated."

The girl's face fell, scrunched up and gave away her youth for a moment. She struggled with it, got herself under control and then set her shoulders back and stuck out her chin defiantly. Before she could answer back, the sound of steps drew both their attention toward town where Vane himself marched directly for them.

Maera's face flushed pink. Her eyes fell to her shoes, and she fidgeted with the fabric of her chemise. Satina flicked her gaze between the girl and the gang leader, one so terribly uncomfortable and the other so completely at ease. Vane strode with his head high and his shoulders back. He had no entourage, and yet, he owned the roadway as surely as he did the town now. His gaze didn't drift from his target for a second, not when he passed the blacksmith's shop, and not when a flutter of quail erupted from Hadja's weeds to flee across his path. His eyes fixed on Satina, and they never once left her.

"Good morning." His voice shattered what morning was left. It pushed the quail even further into the brush on the far side of the road. "How is my goodmother today?"

Satina cringed. She saw Maera flinch, saw the girl's expression change from shy to horrified. When Vane threw an arm around Satina's shoulders, Meara's blush flamed scarlet. Her eyes narrowed.

"On my way to report in," Satina answered as stiffly as possible. She shifted out from under Vane's arm, but the damage had already been done. Maera backed a step away and then spun and bolted through the fence and into Hadja's weedy shelter.

"What was that about?"

"She has a crush on you." She wanted to add that she couldn't guess why, but Vane still held his threat over her, and outright defiance placed Marten and the whole town at risk. "It would seem."

"Really?" He couldn't have sounded less interested.

"Did you need something?" They met at the inn every morning. Why he'd chosen today to wander down and fetch her, she couldn't begin to guess. She didn't bother trying. Nothing she might have imagined could have been worse than Vane's reply.

"Get your things," he said. "All of them. We're making camp in the ruins from here on out."

☼

He gave her her own tent. The tiny space offered her a small measure of privacy, shelter from the rest of the group, and she was grateful for it despite the nagging curiosity about who he'd stolen it from, which poor townsperson had had their tent requisitioned on her behalf. That he pitched it next to his own shelter worried her less. So far, he'd kept her at his side in all ways, and she expected no different here. At least beside Vane's tent meant slightly apart from the others.

His entire gang had moved to the ruins now, though he ordered a rotating guard shift to take turns in town. The remaining men, Vane divided between working on his new road and setting up camp. Today at least, the digs had halted.

Most of the tents ringed a central area where a cooking pit had been dug, and a rough tri-pod erected over it. The Starlight women settled in, well accustomed to camp life and picking up their routines as if they'd never spent the week at Westwood's inn.

Satina avoided them. Their hostile glances told her she'd find no welcome among them. Instead she crept into her canvas shelter and rolled out the bundle that Vane had stuffed inside. The bedroll would serve better than her cloak, and she'd slept in that more nights than she could count. The blankets had three pins down one side to keep them in place and were rolled around a down pillow that someone had embroidered with a swirling P.

She flipped it over to hide the initial, the evidence of someone else's sacrifice. Her leather bags she set in a line along the wall, all but the one in which she carried her dust. That one never left her person. The only other item ever to have claimed that status was the warmer she'd left in Marten's shop, and though she might have welcomed its heat tonight, part of her sighed in relief that her gadget was as far from Vane's clutches as possible.

Until they hit his shop again.

She shook her head and pressed her lips tight. Marten would know enough to hide the warmer. If nothing else, his personal interest in the device would keep it safe. Still, she needed to get back to town. Hadja had barely opened her eyes when she'd come back in to gather her things. With Vane inside the cottage, tapping his boot and scowling at them both, there hadn't been a chance to talk.

They had a plan only half-formed. They had too much resting on the Skinner's help, on the Gentry who may or may not even choose to be found. Vane had plucked her from the thick of their scheming, and now, she had no way to communicate without him watching. She had no way to get a message out, no way to see...but she did have a way to see.

Satina had Vision waiting in the courtyard. She had her menhir and the pocket as well. She rested one hand on her dust pouch and listened to the footsteps right outside her wall. All she had to do was convince Vane to trust her, to win him over enough that he'd loosen his watch—and his grip—a little bit.

If she could pull off that much, if she could find a way to keep in contact with Hadja, maybe they'd still be able to put their plan in motion. She heard Vane rustling in his own tent and tried not to think about the variables, about Marten and the Gentry and keeping Vane from getting suspicious.

She could do it. She was a Granter, even if she had failed poor Maera. She fixed wishes. She helped people. But then, Marten had a different view on that score, and she'd never once tried to use her skills to help herself. If he was right, if they had any chance of getting the Starlights out of Westwood, maybe it was time she tried exactly that.

Satina sat in her tent, wove her fingers through her dust, and for the first time in her life, she made a wish.

Chapter Seventeen

The menhir barely glowed in daylight. In the pocket she'd have been able to see the lines more clearly, but here they blended in with the gray stone and failed to speak to her. Satina leaned close and ran her fingers over the pillar. The pocket would have helped today, but she didn't feel like taking Vane across again. His visits to Old Space excited the man in ways she didn't enjoy watching. So, she stared at the ordinary stone and whispered, "Interesting."

"What?" Vane bumped into her, trying to see over her shoulder, to see what he imagined she saw. "You've found something? What is it?"

They'd been camped in the ruins for a week. She'd managed to keep him satisfied with cryptic references and brief trips across pockets, but he'd grown steadily more impatient, and the time to deliver something solid had arrived. She'd lose his trust otherwise, something already tenuous at best.

As it was, he'd let her go back to the cottage only once on the pretext that she needed an herb from Hadja that would help her to decipher the stone. It allowed her to fill the woman in, to decide on a timeline and form a simple plan for communicating. But the separation had her spooked. She just didn't know what was happening on Hadja's end.

She held up her hand, and Vane frowned but didn't push her further. His eyes glinted like steel, resenting her skills, the need to rely on her at all. "Let me see."

Her fingers drifted to the symbol she'd come to call Vision. It knew her as well, and of all the marks on the stone, this one alone leapt to her hand. It warmed for her and Satina nudged it with her power, joining her skill to the ancient one. Her eyes glassed over, she knew. That had impressed Vane enough the first time and he never questioned her use of the mark to "see" for him.

The sigil swept her up and away. She'd learned it over the weeks, how to wake and ride the power held inside. She'd used it to spy on Vane's men in town, to check up on Maera and Hadja and once, when her resolve had failed her, to peer into Marten's shop. He'd been cleaning, and the privacy of the moment, the way he'd leaned on the broom and sighed, had filled her with guilt. She hadn't tried to see him again, and she vowed to tell Hadja about the spying the next time she managed to sneak back to the woman's home. She should have thought of it earlier, was certain they could put the sigil to some use that would aid their operation.

Today, she needed to see how the plan was progressing, and she had a hell of a story cooked up for Vane upon her return. The symbol obliged her gentle direction. She hovered over the cottage and then swooped down, passing at a thought through the thatch roof and lingering just inside amidst the hanging herbs.

Hadja had a visitor, and Satina felt the Vision tremble under her surprise. She reined it in and watched Marten lean over the narrow table. They had the necklaces ready. Three shards of mirror gleamed against the wood.

"Will she wear it?" He asked Hadja. "Or will she fight about that as well?"

"Have a little patience with her."

They could only be talking about one person. The Vision wavered as she absorbed the fact. She'd learned that early too, how any strong emotion would throw her back to the stone and Vane. She focused and tried to keep her mind neutral.

"Have you finished the stuff for the wagon?"

"Yes." Hadja had added a safety measure to the plan, a special herb she swore would incapacitate but not kill. Something about the way she stroked the packet in her hands made Satina believe it. They'd been folded precisely to burst open on contact—the woman had demonstrated with a harmless bundle of sage—and the plan was to stuff as many as possible into the straw inside the wagon. "How about your helpers? Do we have Gentry?"

"No." Bad news. A huge portion of the plan depended on this. Satina held the image through sheer willpower and watched him lift one of the shards and loop the thong around his neck. "Can you handle the pocket?"

"Yes."

"Moon won't quite be full."

"It's waxing. I'll be fine."

"It's been a long time since you had—"

Hadja smacked him. He recoiled overmuch and grinned. Then his face shifted, he grew taller and his hair smoothed. Even his clothing altered in the shard's effect. Now Vane stood in the cottage with the old woman, but he posed and twisted with Marten's flare for dramatics. "What do you think?"

"That you've gotten too big for your britches."

"They're not my britches." He spun in a circle to demonstrate.

"How is the militia coming?"

Satina jolted. Vision wavered and blurred her view of the cottage. She grasped for a way to cling to the scene, but already she was lifting up through the thatch.

"Good. More than thirty so far."

"What about the blacksmith?"

The roof flew away below her. She could see the yard, the field of weeds and Maera sneaking back across them as usual. She could see the smithy and the whole town, but she couldn't really see anything. They had a whole plan of their own that she didn't know about. A militia. Hadja working the pocket. She flew back to the stone even faster at that thought. She'd no idea the woman's powers extended that far.

Marten had told her Hadja had more magic than she understood, and the old woman had mentioned Powers as well. Satina had assumed she referred to her herbs and potions, to the smaller magics. But they'd both known just how ignorant she was, and they'd kept her in the dark, kept her out of their loop and the big plan, a plan that involved armed conflict.

If Hadja was handling the pocket, that meant Marten wasn't. Satina could guess why. One word explained it. Militia. Her imp was fighting after all.

They'd both lied to her.

The menhir glowed from the courtyard and she dropped toward it. The Vision slammed her back into her body hard enough to knock her into Vane. Good. It would impress him and give her a second before he expected her to be coherent.

He shouted her name, but she pretended not to hear him. They had a bigger plan than they'd told her about. Why? The answer came immediately, stinging and sending a wave of shame through her. They didn't trust her. They didn't trust her ignorance or her skill. Maybe they didn't trust her motives either.

"Satina!" He shook her until her bones rattled. "Goodmother?"

"I'm back." She inhaled a long breath and sat up. "I'm fine."

"What did you see?" He brushed past any concern on her account.

"The map," she began.

"I know it's a map!" The gang leader's frustration bubbled over and he snapped at her.

She'd convinced him the menhir sigils laid out the original floor plans of the castle, tempted him with stories of a man of power, an advisor to the ruler in this castle. He'd swallowed it all eagerly enough, but his eyes still narrowed when she peered at the stone, and she could tell there was a skeptic inside still doubting her story. The plan needed a believer, whatever plan it was.

"I think I found his workroom." She frowned as deeply as she could manage. It wasn't hard, the frustrated act. She just revisited the words she'd heard in the cottage, imagined Marten playing in Vane's body. She bit her lip and glowered at the stone.

"Where?" Vane's voice startled her, brought her back to present.

"I'm not—I think it was here." She pointed to a random marking. Then she squinted across the courtyard and then dropped her eyes back to the mark. She did that a few times, looked up, looked down, chewed her lip. "That can't be right."

Vane growled and pushed in beside her. He'd taken to squinting at the rock as well, as if through proximity, he might just be able to see what she saw. His hand settled at her back, and she fought the urge to flinch away. She'd learned that lesson the hard way, had a bruise on her forearm for three days as a reminder. But the bastard touched her more and more frequently as the days passed, and it still made her skin crawl.

"It should be right there." She threw her arm out, one finger pointing to the suspended pocket. She pressed her lips together and stared at the stone again, then back to the pocket.

"Of course!" Vane stood up and clapped his hands together. He'd been there the day the fiend fell, and now his eyes lighted on the spot where the wounded woman had vanished. His eyes narrowed. "There's a pocket above there. Will the room be in the rubble on this side?"

The last thing they needed was him digging in the pocket. She nodded, feigned a bout of weakness and closed her eyes, sagging again. "Yes. Whatever has survived should be."

"Tell me about him. What did you see?"

"He used his magic to advise King Leopold." The name had actually come from the menhir, had simply popped into her mind when she needed it, but he might have been the gardener for all she knew.

"I don't care about advice, Satina. Tell me about the magic."

"He made things. Devices, playthings, weapons."

"Weapons." Vane clapped a hand on her shoulder and she fell forward.

Satina hid her smile by examining the base of the menhir. Vane was hooked. She'd done her part at least, and despite what they thought of her, she trusted Marten and Hadja to do theirs. For now, maybe even more now, that was all that mattered. He leapt up onto a fallen stone shouted to his gang.

"Halt! Starlights to me!"

She listened while he commanded the excavation team to stop digging. She counted the threads fraying from her hem and tried not to imagine Marten with a sword in hand. The gang assembled around them. Their muttering faded under Vane's triumph.

"I have made a breakthrough!" He had.

Satina had to choke back a snort. The Starlights shifted and waited, hovering on his revelation. She lifted her eyes to the crowd, noted the faces. Each of them had made a choice to join him, had wanted something so badly that they'd sold their loyalty to this man in return. She wanted to hate them.

"My goodmother has seen the thing we seek," he continued, and his words didn't really matter. The gang had no more choice than she did any longer. He told them to dig, and they dug. He told them to stop, and they stopped. If he told them to kill, Satina had no doubt that they would do it.

The tripods were lifted from the latest pit. Despite her attempts at misdirection and ambiguity, Vane had insisted on continual digging, and the Starlight crew managed to pockmark the courtyard with their clumsy pits. Piles of dirt and rubble mounded between the old walls. She'd tried to keep them near the exterior fortification, but the few items they'd found there had been far too mundane in nature to appease Vane's hunger.

Now they dragged their tools, the pulleys, carts and shovels, into the shadow of the great stair. She pulled the loose hair from under her blouse and twirled it back up into its knot. The sun made her shift stick to her, and her neck burned where she'd sat too long watching the stone. She'd taken to tucking up the sides of her skirts like the Starlight women as well. More than gang unity there, the drafts eased the heat and made walking a more practical matter.

The women had never tried to hide their dislike of her. They spent the days huddled in the center of the camp, tending the pots and keeping the workers fed. Where men had accepted her presence on their leader's command, the women spared her only snarls and, when Vane wasn't looking, spat on the ground when she passed.

She suspected Vane liked it that way, that possibly his little touches, his hands on her neck or back, the way he kept her at his side all built into his plan to keep her at odds with them.

"Satina!" He waved her up, offered her his hand and dragged her onto the stone to stand at his side. "Tell them where to dig."

She found her voice, pointed to a spot just near enough the stair but not directly under the pocket. The crews honed in, all eyes pinning her to Vane's side. He hugged her close and his fingers dug into her forearm. "Just there." She pointed again and they all scrambled to obey. Vane's grip tightened. His breath whispered against her neck.

"Nicely done." His fingers found her neck, they trailed up into her hair and she had to suppress a shiver. "I think I like your hair better down." He loosed the pin in a swift stroke and her silver fell in a wave. "Wear it down from now on."

He leapt off, leaving her standing unsteadily on a huge lump of rock. He'd made his point, asserted his authority in a way that would shame her. Now he walked away, waving and shouting orders, the most important person in the world again. She climbed down and brushed her hair back behind her shoulders. Its weight dragged against her head in a constant reminder that she belonged to Vane.

She joined him at the new dig, but she hung back, leaning against a bit of wall while the crew set up their string markers and tripods, laid out levers and bars and shovels all stolen from Marten's shop or forged at the blacksmith's hand. Gangs traveled light. Why carry what can be raped from the next town?

They broke ground within minutes, used the bars to pry up both stone and dirt until the afternoon morphed into a cacophony of scraping metal and men's voices. Satina faded into the wall, eventually sitting cross-legged at the base to watch. They didn't need her now, and so long as she remained where Vane could snap his fingers for her, she'd be blissfully invisible.

Near mid-day the women brought bowls of bread and vegetables. They ignored Satina, and she let it go, pretended she didn't see the sneering or hear their whispers. Even so, Vane noticed. He dragged one of the women back by the kerchief and made her serve Satina. It would only make things worse. The woman's eyes spat hatred at her now. She'd be terrified to eat anything they brought her next time.

Even worse, Vane took to hovering near the wall. She caught him watching her each time she looked up from her meal, and even when he wasn't, she knew a portion of his attention was fixed in her direction. Her hands trembled as she tore off each piece of bread. She chewed them without tasting, swallowed automatically, and started again.

When she'd finished, Satina set the bowl on the stones and leaned her head back against the wall. She closed her eyes and let the sun and the rhythm of the diggers' scraping soothe her into oblivion. She awoke to the rattle of a cart. The men had broken through the first layer of stone and now scratched away at raw dirt and smaller rubble. They stood knee deep in places, most leaning on their shovels to watch the cart's approach.

Satina ignored it. They'd had supplies brought from town before. Vane's men had carved their rough road through the forest. The innkeeper delivered barrels of beer just the day before, and she'd heard Vane order a garden gleaning only that morning. She looked up to the top of the staircase and watched the clouds wander past the black stone until Vane's voice summoned her.

"Satina!" He clapped his hands and raised his voice to a singer's pitch. "Sat-i-na!"

She scrambled from her shelter and skipped over the cobbles and debris. Vane stood in front of the wagon. He held out his arm and she slid under it without argument. They needed him relaxed, believing in his own victory. He squeezed her in close and smiled so wide his teeth showed.

"Hurry up with that," he ordered. At the back of the wagon, she could just see a man's back. He bent down to loosen the ties holding a huge tarp over his load. "We want to celebrate my goodmother's brilliant discovery."

The way he intoned "my" raised goosebumps up her forearms. He was up to something sneaky, and she eyed the tarp as if a wagon load of vipers hid beneath it.

"Don't we, my dear?"

He'd lost his mind. The camp fell suddenly silent. No shovels scratched. The men stilled to watch. Even in the women's makeshift kitchen, the Starlights froze and turned their attention to the wagon. She had the pressing feeling that she should run, flee for the pocket and be gone for good.

Before she could act, Vane turned her. One arm held her like a cooper's band, and the other caught her by the jaw, lifting her face to his. She had time to gasp once before he kissed her. His rough lips pushed hard against hers, and her spine turned to stone. She stiffened and felt her blood chill. The goosebumps turned into shivers. She couldn't pull away, couldn't even twist in his iron grip.

He lifted his face and turned her toward the wagon, trembling and with a face that burned. His hand fisted into her hair and moved her head like a puppet's, forcing her eyes to the wagon, forcing her to see where Marten had stopped unloading to watch Vane's show.

His shoulders didn't slump any longer. His eyes blazed yellow and she feared for a moment that he would rush Vane, attack the man here in the midst of his band and die in the trying.

"You there," Vane waved to the nearest shovelers with the hand that didn't have her by the hair. "Help the man unload." He pushed her away, driving her by the grip on her neck and head while his Starlights moved in on Marten. When they'd gained enough distance from the wagon, when the great stair rose to shadow them, he turned and let her watch.

Her chest hammered, and she trembled from head to toe, but the Starlight crew only did as their leader instructed. They helped the Skinner unload his wagon, no doubt, the very last tools in his inventory, without harming him.

"Just a reminder," Vane hissed close to her ear. "In case you needed one."

Satina nodded. Her lips throbbed too much to bite them. Her face ached, and his grip on her neck hadn't relaxed a bit. She could still taste the bastard, still shivered from his reminder. She hadn't needed it, could have lived forever without it. And if he ever tried it again, goodmother or not, Granter be damned, she'd kill the son-of-a-bitch.

☼

She waited until she was safely inside the pocket to cry. If Vane suspected her of bolting, he didn't show it, nor did she care. By the time she'd slipped through the menhir rift, he had no recourse but to wait for her to return. And possibly go after Marten. Still, she knew Vane's certainty in his hold over her would last at least a few minutes, earn her at least a moment's respite.

She slumped beside the big stone and buried her face in her hands, letting the sobs rattle free and the tears slide. She wanted to bathe, even considered hopping pockets. Did she have time to get clean before the bastard marked her as missing and sent his men after Marten? He couldn't have made it all the way back to town by now. They'd find him alone in the woods, pulling his cart over the ruts and stubborn roots.

She sobbed again, pounded her fist against the cobblestones and cursed Vane, the Starlights, anyone stupid enough to ever join a gang. Like herself.

Footsteps crossed the cobbles behind her. She scrambled to her feet, spinning and stumbling back into the menhir. Her chest tightened. Marten stood in the pocket. His eyes blazed and he watched her with a curious expression. Half anger, half something she couldn't label. He shook his head softly from side to side, opened his mouth once, but said nothing.

What was left to say?

Satina turned back to the menhir. She didn't want to look at him now, with Vane's taint still scenting her hair and skin, with the memory of the man's hands on her still fresh. She dug her nails into her palms and, once again, pretended to examine the big standing stone.

"Has he been hurting you?" The words might have come from the rock itself.

"No." She breathed out, in, pushed her fingernails deeper into flesh. "That was a first."

"For my benefit."

"I—I don't know why."

"I do."

That time his voice crackled. Satina spun back around. He'd crossed the space between them, stood just a few steps away.

"Hadja wants you to take this." He pulled a shard from his pocket, dangling on a thin strip of twine. "Don't wear it unless you need to, but if you need to..."

"I will." She held out her hand and he placed the mirror there. His fingers clamped over her palm and pressed the smooth glass tightly between their palms. He didn't let go, and sparks danced outward from the contact. His breath came soft and shallow.

"Do you want us to push the timetable up?"

"No." She shook her head, but her voice had less conviction. She tried again. "I'll be fine. Should we wait for the full moon?"

"Why?" Now his words took on a skeptical edge.

"So that Hadja can work the pocket more easily." She played her only card. How could she help it with him touching her, sending tingles up her arm? She knew they'd altered the plan, and she deserved to hear him say why.

"Hmm." He tilted his head to the side. "I think she'll be fine as long as we're close."

"Three days then. I think I can keep him busy that long."

His hand gripped more tightly. "Satina."

She wasn't ready to look at him. She had more to say, and a dry lump building in her throat. "Will your militia be ready by then?"

"Hmm."

He pulled his hand away then. She tucked the mirror shard necklace into her cloak pocket and waited for an explanation. He just made that noise a third time, "Hmm."

Now she looked at him. His eyes burned with a low, golden light, staring at her. Waiting.

"You're planning on fighting."

"Yes."

"And you were hiding it from me. You were both hiding it from me."

"Yes." He didn't hesitate. Didn't even flinch.

"Because you don't trust me." She stuck her chin out, crossed her arms over her chest.

One of his eyebrows lifted.

"Fine." She sniffed and tilted her head right back at him. "I get it."

"You don't, Satina." His eyes flared and he shook his head. "You really don't."

He moved so quickly. One second he was staring at her and the next he held her. His mouth fell on hers and the pocket warped and crackled around them. Marten's kiss, Marten's arms, his chest pressed against hers. She tangled her arms around his neck and hung on for all her worth.

He kissed her and kissed her until she couldn't have stood on her own if her life had depended on it. His arms closed around her back and his warmth and magic rushed through her body. He turned his head and nuzzled her on the neck, breathed into her hair. She curled into him, until her trembling ceased. Her breathing heaved in and out, matching his and somehow clearing her body of darkness. Here in Marten's arms, in the pocket, swirling with their magic, Vane could never touch her.

"There's going to be fighting, Satina." He whispered into her neck, brushed his lips up and kissed her on the mouth again. "People are going to get hurt."

A shock of fear trembled through her. She tensed. "If we could get them all in the pocket..."

"Satina." He brushed her hair back from her face and leaned in until their foreheads touched. "Satina."

"We could try."

"This is why we didn't tell you."

"But you could get hurt."

He didn't answer, and the fear bloomed into a whirlwind. She'd worked it out so carefully, had everything planned just to avoid this very thing.

"I didn't think there were any optimists left in the world, Satina."

"Why do I think that's not a compliment?" She stiffened and pulled away. Marten let her go. He scowled at her and shook his head.

"I meant it as one."

"And yet you've tossed aside my plan and made a better one. You've lied to me, you've—"

"Tried to protect you?"

"I never asked you to protect me."

"No." He turned his face away, looked to the far corner of the pocket where they'd dragged the wagon. He hadn't wanted Vane suspicious, hadn't wanted him to make the connection between the pockets. Now she'd have to trust them to get it back in place, to drug it, to be exactly where and when she needed them.

She'd put her life in their hands, but she hadn't asked them to keep her safe—or in the dark.

"I suppose you didn't," Marten said. He turned away and headed for the pocket wall. Better that he go. Better that she didn't think too much about him now. He called back over his shoulder as he stepped through the rift, "Three days, Satina," and then he vanished.

Chapter Eighteen

She climbed the great stair on legs that shook and threatened to give her away. The stones themselves held, as they had through the ages, stout and unrelenting. Still, the absence of walls to either side slowed her steps, even though each stair stretched easily the length of a man in either direction. The Gentry had run this gauntlet, streaking like crazed demons to the diving platform. Satina climbed one terrified step at a time toward the narrow landing.

It had been three days.

As she neared the halfway mark, Vane's stretched voice reached her. "Can you see it?"

Satina scooted toward the stair edge, and her stomach clenched. She leaned out just enough to see him standing in the middle of his crater. He held his necklace out and turned this way and that, testing it for warmth, looking for magic.

"Satina! Can you see anything?"

They hadn't found so much as a broken pot, and she'd been hard pressed to keep him digging at the spot for three days. As it was, he'd split the men off into smaller teams, reworking the other digs—the ones that continued to turn up the occasional relic. Now he had a small cart full of dishes, scraps of tapestry and silver along with the remains of an unfortunate servant. But he had no magic.

"I'm not sure." She shouted down at him. She'd "felt" a surge of power only moments before, and Vane had scrambled in answer to the revelation. He had his necklace out, and she had his full attention. "I think it's a little to the right."

Vane pivoted to the right and held out his device. Even at this height, she could tell he was scowling. Good. As it happened, his finding nothing at all fit right into her plan. Before he could order her down, before she could lose her nerve, she ducked back to the stair's middle and continued her climb. To either side she saw treetops. In one direction lay the other stair, the little one beside the road where she'd begun this journey. In the opposite, Hadja's cottage waited, warm and surrounded by sweet, calming herbs. Behind her, through a narrow swath of forest, the town of Westwood waited, Marten waited.

They all waited for her to fall.

She reached the top before her thoughts could collect. The next step would put everything in motion. She peered out over the courtyard. The next step went nowhere. Far below, Vane spun his misunderstanding in an arc, looking for magic that wasn't there. Between them, a narrow strip of air shimmered and hinted at the pocket beyond.

Had they pulled the cart back into position? A breeze that had felt light and friendly closer to the ground whipped at her hair and cloak, tugging her in the wrong direction, the safe direction back down the stairway. Had this really been her idea?

"Satina!"

She leaned out. The courtyard made a pattern from up here. She could see the slight shades of gray, the way the stones fit together. The digs marred it, but it was there, a soft herringbone of hewn rock. It would hurt, if she missed the pocket, if the wagon wasn't back in position. The fall would kill her.

"I see it!" She hollered down at him, but the wind tore her words away. He frowned. His hand pointing at the necklace. Satina shook her head. She threw one arm out and fixed her gaze on the pocket. The Gentry had done it. They'd done it at a run, like children at the bank of a creek, gleefully, with no fear. But they'd known where the wagon was.

"There!" She pointed down and wavered on the lip of the landing. Vane's eyes flew wide. He shouted her name, screamed for his men. Satina let her arms flail, waved them through the air as if she struggled for balance. She bent her knees, and the wind snagged her cloak and whipped it high behind her. Like wings. She leapt into thin air and fell.

Vane's scream followed her down. "Noooooooooooo!"

The air beat at her face, stripping tears from her eyes and blurring her vision. The pocket, she fixed her mind on the pocket. Any second now.

The familiar ripple surrounded her. She reached for it with her mind. Clawed at it, and kept falling. The world blurred past, a golden streak. She flailed through warm air, cried and, for a second, imagined Marten's face above, smiling.

The impact threw straw into the air. It knocked the wind out of her, but at least there was still a her to be breathless. She lay in the yellow blur for a moment, gasping for air and watching the rain of golden grass bits.

Straw. Straw fell from the sky. It scratched her cheek and arms and squished under her back when she shifted position. Hadja's voice spoke from behind her, from the back end of the wagon.

"Well, you made a pretty show of it. Come on now."

Her bones hurt, but she sat up just the same. The straw clung to her cloak and skirts. Satina dragged herself around and peered at the woman standing behind the cart. Hadja can handle the pocket. "You have the powder packets?"

"Just you hop out of there and we'll stuff 'em in."

She slid to her feet and wobbled to one side, using the wagon to steady her legs. Hadja wasted no time. She dove on a stack of paper packets and began to cram them into the straw. "Take some up front. We need to spread it around, make sure he pops a few of them. Just be careful you don't squeeze any." The old woman's eyes twinkled, even without the glow of the Gentry. She chuckled softly and continued to work her way around the wagon, lacing the straw with her herbal bombs.

Satina picked up a handful and went the other way, tucking packet after packet into the fluff. Her hands shook, and she still had to lean against the wagon as she went, but her legs at least supported her weight again. When Vane landed, so long as he managed to burst a few packets, he'd be unconscious before he could sit up.

That took him out of the picture, but they still had an entire gang to deal with. She'd planned for the Gentry on that count, and the backup plan left a lot to be desired.

"Hadja?" She stuffed her last pack in just as they both rounded the front of the wagon. "I'm not sure about you managing the pocket alone."

"I'll be fine, dear."

"There are over twenty men, and the women..." She thought, just maybe, the women would be even worse.

"You're forgetting who I'll be." Hadaja plucked her mirror shard out from under her shirt. "Nothing to worry about."

"Unless they get suspicious." Satina frowned. Vane was nothing to take lightly, his gang even less so. If Hadja did get them to follow her into the pocket, she'd need to get herself out fast. "Listen, he never asks nicely for anything. You're going to have to play the part."

"And you're going to have to get moving. Here." She thrust a heavy bundle into Satina's arms. It only had the size of a bowl or cup, but whatever was wrapped inside the rough cloth weighed twice as much as it should.

"What's this?"

"The relic you found in the workroom." Another twist in the plan she hadn't been informed of. Another treasure from the woman's cellar.

"Hadja."

"You need to hurry, dear. Worry about your own task. We knew what we were getting into." They had, but Satina had been kept in the dark. "We'd better rough you up a bit as well."

"All right." She shoved the bundle into her cloak pocket and plucked a few stray straws from the wool. "But I want you to be careful."

"Of course." Hadja's smile did little to convince. "Now hold still."

☼

The trek from the little staircase to the castle clearing did more for her ragged appearance than the artifice she and Hadja concocted. Where they had gently frayed her hems, the roots and stickers tore great rents in the fabric. And by the time Satina stumbled back into the courtyard, only half the red scratches on her face and limbs were from the berry juice paint. The rest stung and reminded her that she was about to do something both serious and dangerous.

The gang's work had ground to a halt. Though the slant of sunlight indicated several more hours of daylight, they sprawled or sat around the stones. What conversation existed happened in hushed tones. Satina couldn't see Vane, and her heart stuttered at the thought that he might have already rushed after Marten, bent on some twisted punishment.

She whimpered, and then groaned loud enough to turn a few heads in her direction before limping from the surrounding trees. One of the men shouted. Satina moaned and stumbled. A few more steps and the courtyard filled with activity. The Starlights rushed in two directions, half of them toward her, and the other half toward the tents. She heard Vane's name pass between them, heard someone call for the man.

Maybe he hadn't gone anywhere.

She stopped moving and shifted her weight from foot to foot, intentionally wavering, still making soft noises in her throat. The gang members formed a circle around her, but not one came close enough to touch her. They exchanged glances, shuffled blue boots and waited for Vane.

He charged in like a bull, breaking the circle and tossing his members to either side. Satina choked and staggered toward him. She let one leg falter and fell forward. Would the bastard even catch her? She ground her teeth together and focused on not trying to save herself another bump.

Vane grabbed her. He flipped her around less than gently, however, and his eyes drilled into her. "Where?" He growled and shook her once, frowning when she whimpered. "What happened? Where have you been?"

Satina took a ragged breath, only half act at this point. She leaned heavily against him. He reeked of ale and fury, and his hands still pinched against her skin. This would have to be good, or he'd probably kill her on the spot. She clawed at his shirt, surged forward into his face and watched his eyebrows rise. Her breath hissed once, between her teeth and she stretched her eyes wide, nodding like a mad woman.

She opened her mouth and held while the emotions on his face shifted. He'd get it, the urgency, the wild expression. She wound her fingers into his shirt and gave him a little shake in return. Vane's gaze softened. Hope sparked in his eyes. It was all she needed.

Satina twisted her lips around the word. She made it a long sound, a conspiratorial whisper. "Workroom."

Vane's arms tightened. He pulled her into his chest, until his heart raced under her cheek. His words echoed through that rumble. "Get water! Move! Our goodmother has returned!"

If he expected cheers, he didn't show it. The Starlights turned to obey, but their steps didn't exactly spring. If Satina interpreted correctly, they dragged a touch, and just maybe, a few of the hostile glances were aimed at more than her. She hadn't expected dissent amongst his group and didn't need the complication either. The time had come to hurry.

Satina coughed and cleared her throat. Vane supported her still, but when she twisted, he let her go. She fumbled in the folds of her cloak, making sure to wobble a touch, to keep her shoulders sagging. "Vane." She groaned and stumbled to one side so that he was forced to grab for her again. "Found." She pulled out Hadja's bundle pushed it at him. "Just one to show, prove."

He snatched the thing away and, when she crumpled this time, he let her sink to the stones in a heap. Satina watched him through the veil of her hair. He turned his body to shield the bundle from his men. His fingers ripped at the wrapping. It had better be good. She could see that on the man's face. Once again, she'd put her trust, her life, completely in Hadja's hands.

His brow lowered. His lips pressed tightly together and something reflected a yellow sheen onto his skin. His eyes darted to her and back to what he held. Satina concentrated on her breath, tried to still her racing pulse in case she had to run.

He cradled Hadja's bundle to his chest and turned his attention to her. Her body tensed, ready to bolt though, after the trip here, she didn't relish another run through the woods. Nor did she fancy her chances at escape. Vane dropped into a crouch beside her. He hid whatever she'd brought him, and his voice came out in a rasp.

"You." His mouth curled into a grin. "One of you is worth all of these idiots."

Satina swallowed. She blinked at him and let her body settle just a little. He didn't want to kill her, sure. But whatever gift Hadja had provided lit a light inside Vane, it was brilliant and twisted and drenched in murderous greed.

"Hit hard," she whispered. "Grabbed that, but..."

"I'll have you tended to."

"There's more." Satina peered into his eyes and shivered inside. "There's much more."

Vane held himself in check, but he trembled around the edges. "The workroom?"

"Intact. The pocket is isolated, hard to get out of. I fell." She worked up another sob then bit her lip as if she'd slipped.

Vane barely noticed her at all. He nodded, and his lips moved, but whatever conversation he participated in happened in his own head. No sound came out.

Two of the women arrived with a clay bowl and a jug of water. Vane waved them at her, not noticing the sneers they turned in his direction. He ignored them all and curled around his treasure, debating with his own mind. "Could use a rope to lower down," he mumbled. "Safer to go up, though."

She let him sort it out. All she needed was him interested in that pocket. How he got in there didn't matter much. The first woman set the bowl down, hard, on the stones. It cracked. Satina heard it. They heard it. They grinned at her and thunked the pitcher beside it. She answered their scowls with a blank stare.

Vane continued to debate his options, and eventually, the women left. Satina dipped her hands directly into the pitcher and cupped enough water to scrub at her face. The cool eased the blush of exertion, but the water stung in the bramble lashes. She dipped again anyway, cleaned her face and then went to work on her arms while Vane mumbled like a lunatic beside her.

"We'll need a scaffold." His head snapped up and his voice held more lucidity. "Hold this." He shoved the bundle into her arms and leaned in as if they were on the same side, a team against the rest of his gang. "Don't show anyone."

"No." She shook her head. "Of course not."

"Good." He patted her shoulder and stood up, grinning again. She'd slipped into his confidence, had vanished and returned, and now the man truly believed she belonged to him. She'd come back, after all. She'd brought him his treasure. Except Vane craved magic most of all.

Satina hefted the bundle in her hands and imagined what could possibly have driven Vane to trust her? She peeled back Hadja's homespun wrapper and caught a glint of golden metal. Why had the woman parted with something of enough value to affect Vane like this? She pulled the fabric lower, checked around her for Starlight spies and then opened the binding enough to see clearly.

She had to fight against laughing out loud. As it was, her shoulders shook enough to give her away. Hopefully, anyone watching would write it off to fatigue. Inside the wrappings she found a golden ball. It looked arcane enough, the surface completely covered in swirls and squiggles, but the marks were not sigils. They held power only to amuse. Hadja had sent Vane a child's toy, and he had seen in it exactly what she'd expected him to.

Maybe they had a chance. With Hadja's mind and her magic, with Marten's militia, maybe they could actually succeed. Satina rolled the cloth back around the plaything and scanned the courtyard. The men had returned to their digging, but now a separate crew attacked the surrounding forest. They swung axes, dragged back branches and chipped away at the castle's last defense.

Vane strode across the stones with a new purpose. His steps clipped with the promise of power. His gaze drifted up, to the hanging pocket, to the imagined treasure trove of a made-up sorcerer. Satina's insides went cold. He wouldn't find what he sought. They'd baited him, and what they'd roused was more than she'd expected. She had no idea if they could handle him now.

The Starlight leader threw his arms wide and shouted at the world. "Now!" He turned to her, framed a smile that burned into her vision. "All we need is a ladder!"

Chapter Nineteen

It only took them until dusk to finish. Satina sat by the menhir while they built it, one stripped sapling at a time. The final product swayed and complained against its lashings, but she judged it safe to climb. Safe enough and just the right height to reach the pocket. All she had to do was push Vane through first.

Except he'd vanished again.

Throughout the building of the scaffold, Vane had drifted to and from the courtyard to inspect the progress. He barked orders, tested the strength of a few of the lashings, and scowled at the men when they slowed or rested. The remainder of the time he'd taken to disappearing.

Satina tried to figure out where he'd gone, but the rubble heaps had grown into small mountains, and the best she could guess was that he returned repeatedly toward the tents and the camp where the gang women continued to cook and wash. She shifted position and watched him as far as she could, but didn't risk standing to peek or following him outright. She didn't have to fake her exhaustion. The woods run had winded her, and her scratches still complained. Whatever energy she had left she'd do best to save for getting the last of her part in the plan properly completed.

Now they'd built his ladder, and Vane would appear any moment to make her climb it with him. She inhaled and tried to find her center, her power. Fear scattered her attempt. Her hands shook. She scooted closer to the big stone and let its shadow soothe her. The lines danced in the half light and she could catch their faint glowing now. Vision. She looked to the mark, to the familiarity of it, for reassurance.

Instantly she was swept up and away. The sigil carried her to Westwood, over the trees to the buildings ringing the town square. From that vantage she could see the alleys. She could see the shadows moving behind each building. She could see Vane, standing by the fountain, pointing and shouting to the few Starlights who'd remained in town. But it wasn't Vane. She knew that as well as she knew the little skip in his step and recognized the flash of a mirror shard at his throat.

Marten led four of the members away, down the road toward the twin tree pocket. The rest split in twain and headed in other directions. The shadows surged and she saw for the first time what the imp had been up to. The townspeople of Westwood poured from the alleys. They surrounded both groups, and though the Starlights drew steel, they faced many more axes and pitchforks.

Vision shifted her away, following Marten and the group he led. They never made the pocket. This four didn't even have time to draw. Satina saw Cygnus in the mob that swarmed them. She saw the blacksmith's huge hammer and her mind flinched from the scene. Vision threw her back to the courtyard and her own body, safe from the violence where Marten had entrenched himself.

She flung herself forward, placed both palms against the ancient stone and thrust her will blindly at it. She didn't know its symbols, but if Vision understood her, perhaps the others would as well. Her power burst through her hands, heated the points of contact and she begged it, begged the menhir, the sigils and whatever hands had hewn them, to protect and defend those fighting tonight because of her.

Keep them safe. Keep Marten safe. Her mind chanted to the rock, and it gave her no response. How could it? She knew bloodshed when she saw it coming. To imagine the night ending without loss...not even a Granter could be that naïve.

"Goodmother." Vane's voice broke the silence. He stood behind her, and when she turned, offered a slippery smile. "It is time, Satina."

She took her time standing, made a show of scooping up and straightening her skirts. The ruins had grown quiet. No shovels scraped the courtyard, and the constant swish of dirt piling had stilled. The light already shifted toward dark, lengthening shadows and trailing a crisp chill against any exposed skin. She shivered and turned to face her task.

Vane had Maera at his side. The girl glowed up at him, tucked close under his arm. Satina blinked and scrambled for an explanation. It came when Maera looked at her. Hatred burned in that expression. Her young eyes glinted with it. In an instant the girl's trips through the weeds changed meaning. Her nervousness, her flight back into the field each time she was discovered. How much had she overheard?

The triumph in Maera's smile said enough. It said she'd betrayed their plan for her own ends, ends that had put her exactly where Satina had refused to—in Vane's arms.

The gang leader dipped his head to her and maintained his smile. His eyes had hardened, however. The treasure lust dimmed and only cold dismissal replaced it. He'd kill her now, if she so much as flinched.

"Shall we?" He waved her toward the ladder and Maera giggled. The sound grated, too high in pitch and wild with the girl's excitement.

Satina moved to obey. She walked from the stone sentinel, leading the way to a scaffold that he couldn't possibly let her climb now. Whatever he had planned, he didn't offer any clue, only followed in her shadow with the blacksmith's daughter tucked protectively under one arm.

At least Marten had succeeded. The town had even stood beside him, followed his direction. Maybe they could rout the gang without her help? Hadja was safe in her pocket, and only Satina needed to suffer Vane's wrath. Only she had fumbled her portion and—she could hear Marten's echo—put her trust in the wrong young girl.

"Stop." Vane snatched at the back of her cloak. His fingers twisted in wool and hair alike until her feet stilled. They'd reached his scaffold, and a ring of Starlights watched like vultures. Pale, unfriendly faces ringed the spectacle and waited for her sentence. "Now prove it." Vane spoke to Maera, and a flicker of hope drew Satina's gaze to his face. He doubted the girl's story then? His greed wanted that workroom to exist. He wanted her story to be true.

"She'll have it in her pocket." Maera stuck out her chin and glared at Satina. "Inside her cloak."

So much for hope. Vane spun her around and Maera crept forward. The fist twisting at the back of her neck kept Satina from kicking at the girl, but only just. Her cloak was thrown open, and Maera fished through her pockets like a ferret. The spool of thistledown fell to the stones. The remains of her dust, the girl tossed aside without a glance. Finally, Maera made a short, satisfied grunt and plucked the mirror shard from the garment. She dangled it from the thong and let the glass spin and flash.

"Is that it?" Vane snarled enough that the girl jumped.

"Y—yes."

"Can you use it?"

"I think so. I heard her explain it."

"Try it now."

Maera nodded and slipped the thong around her neck. She tossed a look in Satina's direction, and then closed her eyes. At first, nothing happened and Vane shifted his weight to his other foot. His grip on Satina loosened a tiny bit. But Maera had listened well. Her body blurred and shifted. Her grin morphed into Vane's smug smile. She triggered the illusion exactly as Hadja would have, until Satina stood with two Vanes, and both of them sneered at her.

"That's a pretty trick." The real one shook her, lifted her by the hair until only her toes had contact with the ground. "Your friend has filled me in on the rest." He turned his head up, eyeing the platform and the pocket he couldn't see. "Are you sure it's not lethal?"

"Yes." Maera answered, and Satina could only guess at how much she'd heard. She had some details, knew about the drugged wagon. Had she missed anything? Had she known about her father and Marten's militia, and if so, had Marten walked into a trap as well? "She has to open it though."

They still needed her for the pocket. Why? Surely Vane wouldn't fall through now, but they pushed her to the ladder, and Maera already climbed. Looking exactly like him. Satina twisted and reached for Vane's hands. "I won't do it." She clawed at her hair, but he only pushed her into the ladder. "I won't open it."

"You will." Vane pinned her between the lashed branches and his body. He leaned in and whispered so close his lips brushed against her ear. "You will open the pocket, of I'll gut your little traitor friend like a pig."

Maera. She should let him do it. The idiot child had killed the plan. Her blind adoration would sacrifice Hadja next, and maybe her father had already turned on Marten. She reached up for the next wrung and Vane let her hair loose. He snagged her cloak lower down, though, and she climbed behind Maera with his weight dragging at her hems.

The scaffolding swayed, and each cross bar bowed under their weight. The lashings held, but the whole platform shifted and leaned in one direction. Vane shouted, and a crowd of Starlights rushed forward. They leaned with shoulders and backs into the construction, and the platform stabilized. Maera already perched on the top of the thing. The gang had built it to hold two and, for a moment, Satina imagined Vane would have to let her go. She could open the pocket and slip through with the girl. She could warn Hadja. They could make a run for it.

The Vane above her shouted and pranced on the narrow platform. The one below wound his fist into her cloak and climbed on her heels. The Starlights groaned and held the platform from below, and a ribbon of Old Space rippled just over her head. She reached the top rung, and Vane shoved her. Maera dove for her as well, and together the two Vanes pushed and dragged her onto the platform. The real one clung to the ladder, but he still held fast to her cloak.

Satina reached for the clasp.

She jerked backwards. Vane's hand wrapped around her ankle, and his face snarled over the edge of the platform. She ended up on her knees, flailing for balance and leaning way too far out over the edge of the thing. Maera grabbed her neckline and pulled her steady. The racing of her heart thrummed in her ears. She was caught fast between them, the girl and the man she looked like.

"Open it!" Vane below commanded. His fingers bit into her ankle. "And don't move."

They had her trapped and bound. The pocket rippled and, on the other side, Hadja waited for Vane to fall into a booby trapped wagon. Marten might be safe in town. They had the gang there outnumbered. But Hadja was one old woman against a horde of Starlights. If Maera came through looking like Vane, she'd take it as the go ahead for the next phase.

"Do it!" Maera snarled and shook her. The shard flashed against her chest. Vane's chest. Hadja would see the shard. She'd know what it meant, know she had an imposter in the wagon.

Satina nodded and reached for the pocket. Hadja would notice the mirror shard. She'd stay safely inside the pocket. Marten would have his militia to protect him. She felt the membrane vibrate under her hand. They'd all be fine. The rift opened to her thoughts, and Maera/Vane leaped straight through it. She vanished, and the real Vane tugged hard enough on Satina's ankle to twist her around.

"Now," he shouted. "Back down."

Hadja wouldn't open the pocket. She'd know something was wrong. The others would be fine, but Satina was as good as dead. She climbed down Vane's scaffolding, scrambling for an idea, a clue, anything that might get her away from him long enough to reach a pocket. She'd run the stairs if she had to. She'd run for the woods. Anything. But the gang leader pulled her into his arms before her feet hit the ground. He hugged her close and growled into her hair.

"Now we watch." He laughed. "Let's see what your friends do next."

He dragged her around the ladder and up to the big heap his men had made at the new dig sight. Vane threw her down against the rubble and then sprawled beside her. He waved his arm, and his Starlights moved beyond them, into the open courtyard where the menhir stood. Maera had told him about the next phase. Now his gang arranged themselves around the pocket, waiting for the next Vane copy to show.

But Hadja would see the shard. She had to.

Satina wanted to look. She lay beside Vane and fought the urge to roll over and climb the pile, to peek beyond. He watched her, eyes flat and dark. The Starlights grew quiet, took position and waited for orders. What would he do to her when no one came? When nothing else happened? She hoped Hadja's powder made Maera vomit.

Vane's jaw twitched. The castle lay in a sheath of darkness now. The moon that just tipped the treetops had only a sliver's status, but it draped the high spots in blue light, and made the long shadows all the more black. The canopy rustled under a soft wind, rattling and sending a few leaves skipping across the courtyard pavers. Someone coughed.

She listened to her breath slide in and out and waited for Vane to turn on her, to realize Hadja was on to them. Maybe he'd decide Maera had lied. Maybe she could convince him the shard had been for other purposes, that the girl had... Vane's voice shouted into the night. It didn't come from the man beside her, however, and she twisted, tried to see over the rubble despite the heavy hand that landed on her shoulder.

"Starlights!" Hadja shouted from the menhir, perfectly mimicking the gang leader's tone. "We have succeeded."

Beside her, Vane rumbled, low in his chest. He held her down, pushed her into the rubble while he scooted closer to the lip. Voices answered Hadja, but they remained too low, too mumbled to make out clearly. She heard footsteps, felt the weight of Vane's anticipation through the pressure on her spine. The rubble dug into her cheek while the Starlights turned on Hadja.

Vane had her no matter what, but Hadja could still slip back through the pocket and be gone. Satina wriggled enough to catch a decent breath. She ignored Vane's growling, inhaled and screamed as loud as she could manage. "Run!"

The courtyard exploded into motion. She twisted, and Vane dove on her, grappling at her thrashing limbs. "Hadja, run!" He smashed his palm into her face. The world spun and throbbed. She tasted blood on her lips, the sharp tint of iron. Her body lifted from the rubble as Vane stood. He held her out and shook her while the ruins spun around them at an angle.

"We have her!" A man's voice called out.

Vane stilled, but the ruins still swirled and wavered through a sheen of tears. He lowered her body until she could have stood, but dragged her with him around the debris. She stumbled and hung in his grasp like a sack of beans. The Starlights stood in a ring around the menhir. Vane pushed two of them out of the way and broke through the line. "Hold her!"

Two Starlights held Vane's twin by the arms. They stood only a pace in front of the pocket. It shimmered behind them. Hadja had nearly made it back through. A step, maybe two. Satina went limp. Her weight dragged Vane off balance, and he shifted his feet to compensate. She kicked out, landed her foot against his knee and began to thrash.

She had no purchase, and her blows made little impact. Vane just lifted her from the ground again and let her dangle, kicking and cursing. The Starlights took a step away, however and, as she spun around, Satina tried to catch Hadja's eye. A little closer and the woman could bolt through the rift.

"Idiots!" Hadja screamed with Vane's voice. "He's an imposter!"

The ploy was too obvious, too desperate. Still, the Starlights exchanged a lightning quick glance before deciding to ignore her.

"He's been working with her the whole time!" Hadja continued and struck a nerve. The gang had never liked Satina's involvement.

"Ignore her." Vane sighed. "Bring her away from..."

"Starlights to me!" Another voice screamed from the ruins and, it too, belonged to Vane.

Vane whipped around, and she swung along with him. The Starlights all turned to face the edge of the courtyard where a third gang leader stood outlined in the moonlight. He posed atop a short stretch of wall in a stance that she could easily label as belonging to Marten. The Starlights, however, began to murmur their confusion.

"They're both impostors!" Marten shrieked.

"This is ridiculous." The real Vane lifted her into the air again and used her to gesture with. "Kill both of them!"

The Starlights didn't move. Blue boots shuffled against the stones. Vane set her down slowly, pulled her close and held her like a shield. One of the others spoke—she couldn't see which one, and it hardly mattered. The words carried a chill that spread over the crowd in an instant. "Why don't we kill all three of them?"

"Fools!" Vane spat and hugged her tighter. "They planned this!"

The gang moved slowly. First the two men holding Hadja shifted position. They pushed their Vane to his knees, to Hadja's knees, and stepped back just enough. A third Starlight drew his sword and moved in on the old woman.

"No." Satina thrashed and twisted, but Vane pulled her with him, backing one step, two and three, away from the scene. A line of Starlights stood to either side, and the gang closed up the space behind them.

The sword lifted, catching moonlight. Satina watched it in a trance, pressed against Vane's chest and held fast.

A scream erupted from the back of the group, from the tents where the women worked. Satina could see them running toward the courtyard, and shadows ran after them. Marten shouted from the wall, "Forward!"

The Starlights spun to face an attacking militia. Townspeople with homemade weapons leapt from the walls and alleys on all sides. Satina twisted and turned her head, but bodies ran everywhere and Vane already pulled her with him, scrambling for an escape route in the chaos. She struggled against him, saw Marten leap from his wall. She saw Hadja, fall backwards into the men who held her. The pocket rippled, and all three of them vanished. She saw the Starlights draw their swords, heard the clashing of metal. Then something slammed into her head, she spun, and all she saw was darkness.

Chapter Twenty

She smelled dirt. Her bones hurt, and something rough pressed into her face. Far off, she heard shouting. Her body stiffened. Far off? She tried to move, but only succeeded in brushing her arms and legs against the ground. Vane's boot rested in the small of her back. He'd thrown her to the ground, had dragged or carried her here, and now she lay pinned like a bug under his foot.

"There's a pocket here, yes?" His voice frayed and graveled.

"Where?" The boot twisted until she yelped.

He bent down and grabbed her hair, lifting her head so that her neck pinched and sent stabs of pain down her spine. She saw the forest around them, a familiar lump of bushes with a pocket shimmering beside. He'd brought her to the little stairs. How he'd slipped the Starlight's noose, she couldn't imagine, but the faint sounds from the trees told her the battle still raged. Marten fought the Starlights out there, and in the pocket beyond, Hadja struggled alone with two of them.

"Where is it?" Vane shouted at her. "The pocket!"

"Find it yourself."

He pushed her face into the dirt, crushing her nose and mouth until she had no air. Her arms flailed, and she kicked and squirmed, but her lungs tightened and burned. Vane rolled her over, and she gulped a breath. He stepped on her chest now, fumbled in the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a familiar packet. Only one hand could have folded that paper. Satina remembered his visit, the night she hid in her room and feigned sleep. She remembered the clay jug labeled "death."

"Wait."

His fingers pried up the tab, unfolded the flap.

"I'll open it." She could take him anywhere. An image flashed through her mind. She could take him to Henry. "I'll do it."

Vane sneered and unrolled the packet. "Damn right you will," he said. "The witch said this will make you do whatever I tell you to."

She clamped her jaw tight and shook her head. Whatever Hadja had told him, she'd seen the mark on that jar. One had been a lie, and she didn't fancy finding out which the hard way. Her lips glued together, and she squirmed under his boot.

Vane grinned and upended the packet. Powder rained from the paper. It fogged the air between them, fell like desiccated rain and covered her chest and face in dust. She held her breath, but Vane's leg flexed. His boot sank into her chest, and her lungs emptied. When he lifted his foot, they sucked for air, inhaled and breathed in a cloud of powdered herbs.

"Now." Vane didn't have any patience left. He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet, keeping his face turned away and managing to hold his breath with no trouble. The clearing tilted to one side before steadying. Satina blinked at it, at the colors flared into a rainbow of new shades. The staircase danced behind him. "The pocket!"

He spun her around inside a sea of colors that shifted and glowed, twisting together into ribbons of light. She giggled, and he shook her until the colors vibrated.

"Open it!" His voice vibrated as well. It stretched into slow, exaggerated syllables.

"You sound funny."

Vane held her out at the end of his arms and stared into her face. "OPEN THE POCKET!" His voice twanged. His features melted and dripped colors onto his shirt. She giggled again.

He grabbed her by the head, turned her around and spun in a circle so that the woods blurred into a smear that rippled as much as any pocket. His voice sang in her ear. "Open the pocket open the pocket open."

"Okay!" She yelled to the dark sky, the only thing that didn't shift and turn colors. Her eyes fixed up, glued to that black spot and gave her mind a moment's rest.

Branches crashed and crackled. Vane yelled again, called her name, "Satina!" except now he was far away, even though he still held her. His hands drove her gaze back down. His mouth tickled her neck. "Hurry. Where is it?"

She found the ripple and pointed one arm out like an arrow. "There." A man stepped out of the woods just to the right of the bush. She recognized him. He still had hold of her head. "That's you. There you are."

The lips snarled in her ear. The man they belonged to hunched, ten paces away at the edge of the woods. How could he stand there growling while his arms had her all the way over here?

"Let her go, Vane," Vane shouted.

She laughed, and the arms holding her flexed and cut the sound short. Fingers pressed into her jaw and temple. Her head tilted.

"I'll snap her neck." Vane's voice came from the mouth at her ear. His hands held her tight, but he also frowned at her with his other face. "I'll kill her."

"No." The new Vane held up his hands. "Don't hurt her."

"Where's the pocket?"

Satina pointed. She stretched her fingers out and waved them at the ripple. Each one shot a long stream of colored fire, trailed a rainbow that wiggled with the motion of her hand. "It's right there," she said. "Look" The ribbons rolled from her nails and then melted as Vane pushed her toward the pocket. "Ouch."

She held up her hands while he steered her toward the rift. His twin just waited by the bush, fingers flexing and trailing ribbons just like hers had. She laughed, but it made her head hurt. The voice in her ear yelled at Vane, "Move aside, and don't follow us."

Satina stretched her fingers and watched her rainbows merge with the ripple. The colors bled onto the rift and drizzled down to the ground. She giggled, cringed at the pressure in her ears, and teased open the pocket.

Something shoved her through. She blinked and watched the world sparkle.

"Move!" Vane stood behind her. He released her head, but wrapped one arm around her shoulders and crushed her to him. "Get us out of here, now."

"But it's so lovely."

"Another pocket!"

"You shout too much." He pushed her across the bubble. This one only stretched about six steps, and she reached for the far wall. He wanted a different place. Images danced across her mind, but they all blurred and twisted with color. She laughed and wiggled her fingers.

"Move," Vane said. He pushed her right into the bubble membrane, and she stood there watching the waterfall of colors tingle down on all sides. Behind them, Vane burst into the pocket. He had a sword in one hand. A dark cloud clung to the metal. It whispered to her of death and blood.

She opened a rift and dove through. Something dragged against her, and she pulled hard and brought it along. The world blurred and shifted. Colors danced, and she fled from that stink of death. She flickered from one bubble to the next, wove the fabric of space and slid through it like a rainbow dream.

Finally, exhausted, she fell through into a grassy place. Pink trumpets dotted the lawn, and she rolled onto them, sprawled on her belly and breathed in the scent of growing things. The pocket spun slowly, like one of her warming disks, first one way and then the other. She closed her eyes tightly and tried to sleep.

"Where are we?" A nasty voice demanded.

Satina ignored it. She peered through her eyelids at the huge blades of grass, at trumpet flowers that opened and closed their mouths and spoke in Vane's voice.

"Are we safe?" they asked. "Where have you taken us?"

"It's very pretty," she said. Had she been here before? The whole lawn sparkled with the first hints of dust, golden and full of power. It lay thin now. The full moon would be more than a week away yet. Still, she brushed at the nearest growth and pulled her hand away tinted with golden powder. "I need some dust."

"Get up."

"No thank you." She rolled onto her back and looked up at him. He curved in a huge arc, standing on teeny, tiny feet and making enormous faces at her, rumbling like a far off waterfall. She shook her head, and he rippled until her stomach clenched and she had to look away. The pocket sparkled and spun, and her insides rolled and threatened to be sick.

"Worthless," he said.

Satina tittered. "Worth more than the whole gang, you said."

"Yes, but not like this." He pushed her with his boot, and she rolled with it, turning on her side to gaze out across the pocket. "The powder was supposed to make you pliable not drunk."

"Death." Satina wriggled her fingers through the grass and then shook the film of powder off in a miniature golden rain. "It's going to kill me."

She sighed and watched the dust scatter. A few more days and the pocket would be thick with enough to scoop up by the sack full. She'd have liked to see one more full moon in Old Space. She'd have liked to see it with Marten. The pocket rippled in front of her, and she imagined him stepping through. His clothing had mud staining it, bits of forest clinging to the hem of his tunic. His leather pants had torn, and he carried a bloodied sword. She frowned. Why would she possibly imagine him in that state?

Her heart leapt just the same. He'd found her, even if it were in her own mind. Marten crouched low and crept forward, and she thought he meant to pounce on her. Color trails drifted from his feet, marking the grass like magic puddles. His sword clouded and went dark. Something moved behind her, and she remembered Vane just in time to see him step around and face her imp.

She had quite the imagination today.

Vane had a sword out as well, and though it bore no cloud of death, it looked much longer and sharper than the Skinner's blade. It certainly reached farther when the two dove together. The metal clanged nearer to Marten's chest than she'd have preferred. They danced apart, lunged again, and Satina sat up.

"How did you find us, Skinner?" Vane snarled and circled. "Did she leave some kind of trail?"

"Your men are gone, Vane. Your gang is broken."

"I still have her."

Marten growled and thrust. Vane parried, and the swords sang and slipped off only to be swung back together again. Sparks flew in all directions, red, yellow, purple. They landed in the grass like tears. Vane danced to the side and slipped Marten's defense, and a streak of green sprouted on his lovely cheek. It drizzled down over his jaw.

"I don't like this," she told them. The pocket spun when she tried to sit up. "Stop it."

Both men ignored her. They circled and circled opposite the pocket's spin. It made her feel sick. Her stomach twisted and, though she wanted to look away, her eyes fixed on the battle. Her hands tore at the grass, and each breath she took grew shallower than the last. The black fog around Marten's sword swirled, as if to remind her that something very bad was about to happen.

"No!" She shook her head and made them all into ribbons of light. The pocket wall lay just to her right. Beyond it, she wouldn't have to watch. Satina tried to stand, but her legs wobbled like the ribbons, everything danced and shifted and she couldn't be sure which ripple was real and which was in her head.

She scooted on her belly, swam through prismatic grass while the swords made music overhead. She wanted quiet and safety and the sweet smell of thistledown. "Henry?" She called to her guardian. "Henry, where are you?" Her fingers brushed a wall that tingled. She felt the rift dance at her caress, shift for her.

Something heavy landed on her back. It pressed down until her spine bent and pinched.

"Henry!" She shouted for help, tore the rift open.

"You're not going anywhere." Vane's voice floated above. His boot twisted into her back.

"Maybe not." Marten spoke softly, sounding far weaker than normal. Swords smashed together, and the boot eased up enough for her to roll and scramble from beneath it. Marten bled from his face and left arm. His sword pulsed and he limped on one side. "But we are." He charged into Vane, slammed their bodies together so hard that they flew through the air. Vane brought his hilt down into Marten's shoulder. Something cracked as they sailed past, hit the rift she'd torn and vanished through it.

She clawed at the air. Waved her fingers and watched the long trails wiggle. "Henry?" Nobody answered her. The pocket spun and glittered, and she was alone in it. "Marten?" She rolled onto her back and looked up. Pink clouds padded by, driven on winds she could actually see. They coiled and twisted and pushed the skies forward. She'd ingested death, and it was so beautiful.

"Henry, Henry" She sang to it and watched the words fly from her lips and rise up to join the rippling air. "I'm going to die."

"Satina!"

"Marten." She giggled, and the sound trailed out and up. "Marten, Marten, Marten."

"Satina." He dropped to his knees beside her. Out of thin air, still bleeding, but looking at her with glorious, glowing amber eyes.

"Are you dying too, Marten?" She tried to touch his face, but her hands danced and warped and refused to go where she told them.

"You're not dying."

"Oh yes." She nodded, and his face melted. "I breathed Hadja's death."

He laughed, great bubbles of crimson and gold that landed on her face and burst.

"It's not that funny."

"Death mushroom spores," he said. "You're higher than a sprite."

"Where's Vane?"

"Playing with Henry." His eyes narrowed. Sparks flew from the corners. "I don't think we need to worry about him."

"Shhh." She reached for his lips and missed, tapping him on the shoulder instead. "It's a secret." Nobody was supposed to know about Henry.

"Okay. It's a secret." His face blurred and dimmed. The pocket darkened. "I won't tell anyone."

"Don't tell, Marten." He'd kept secrets too, and Hadja, and Maera also. Too many secrets. "Don't tell Marten."

"I won't."

"Don't tell him." The darkness deepened. All the colors dripped and turned purple black. The spinning stopped, and everything grew very still and quiet. He said she was high, not dying, but this looked like death now. It looked like the cloud that clung to Marten's sword. Only shadows hung around her, and somewhere, a voice sang. It told her to sleep, to stop talking and drift away. "Don't tell," she whispered and let herself sink down and down. "Don't tell Marten I love him."

Chapter Twenty-One

The aroma of sage and something fruity wove through her dreams. It lingered after they stilled and settled, soothing the colors away and leaving only sweet, calming darkness. She inhaled it, relaxed and exhaled.

A sigil floated on a black field. The squiggle vibrated, blue, glowing, very familiar. It was hers, Vision. It grew larger, wafted nearer. She knew it—the menhir had given the mark to her. Could she use it now, so far from the stone that bore it?

Even as she thought it, the symbol closed in, teasing, asking her to try. Satina reached for it. It dodged once, trembled and threatened to fade. She held still, centered. Vision blossomed once more. This time, she let it come to her. She watched the lines burn and grow until the curves filled her consciousness. There was nothing else. She fell into it.

Vision flung her up and out, through a familiar thatched roof. She looked down on Hadja's cottage. The day glowed bright under a cloudless sky, and the field around the house rippled in a light breeze. The whole scene blurred and slipped away to be replaced by the ruins, pocked with Vane's dig sites and mounds of rubble. Today no one dug in the pits.

The blacksmith of Westwood stood by the menhir. Around him, the townspeople dragged both Starlight and villager bodies toward a row of open graves. Satina flinched away, and Vision carried her over the trees. For a moment, they drifted. Her thoughts scrambled and dodged, but there was no avoiding the truth. People had died.

She searched for her memories of the battle and found only a haze of strange, brilliantly hued scraps. Without the mushroom powder to distort them, she managed to piece the events together. Still, questions remained. How had Hadja fared with two Starlights in the pocket? Had Maera triggered the sleeping dust in the wagon? Where were they all now?

She had a sense, not so much a vision but a knowing, that Hadja had been in the cottage where she slept. Marten would have brought her there. Marten had been with her and Vane in the pockets. She remembered enough of that, opening a gateway to the thistledown patch. Had Vane survived Henry?

Vision supplied her with an answer. The trees sped by, too fast for her mind's eye to process. Mountains, more forest and a wide, thrashing ocean flickered before the sigil brought her to a stop. Still, she recognized the place it delivered her to. She'd seen it from a distance many times. She'd seen it from the thistledown pocket, and she'd never once found a way to get this close before.

She hovered over the castle and, from that height, she could see the blue swath of water that encircled an island, almost a perfect circle of land. The terrain rose from the sea to a sharp forested point, atop which, perched a fortress. Despite the intact towers, the sturdy, unbroken walls, Satina could see that she'd been wrong about the preservation. Time and war had taken their toll here, but only enough to leave the building empty, abandoned and without maintenance.

Still, the windows beckoned. What could lie inside a castle so well preserved? Secrets from before the Final War? Relics from the Kingdoms? She yearned to fly closer and steal a peek, but Vision shifted and the island spun to one side. The edges blurred and Satina was forced to gaze on one particular, forested slope.

A man climbed through the trees. He limped and stumbled more than he walked. One of his arms cradled the other, and his clothing was tattered, but Vane was very much alive. Somehow, he'd slipped from Henry's grasp and landed at the very spot she'd always longed to find. His eyes turned up with each step he took, resting upon his goal, the only goal he could possibly have. The castle at the top of the island.

Vision stuttered, and the view slid away. It showed her a mighty fire blazing in, yet another, pocket. This one teemed with gleaming, green bodies, with creatures that should be long extinct. Vision supplied the word that she couldn't summon. Gobelins. Satina's fear drove the images away and thrust her back into darkness. The sigil glowed steadily before her. Gobelins? And Vane living? She needed to tell Marten, to warn Hadja, the town, possibly everyone. Her panic made the symbol waver and twist. Soon it would throw her back, deposit her in a body that may or may not survive Vane's poison.

Except it hadn't been poison. She fluttered and let her mind chase after the memory. Marten had found her in the pocket. Drugged, he'd said. Death mushroom spores. A new scene sprouted from the sigil's glow. She hovered inside the imp's shop. Marten sat on a stool behind the counter, his bottle of paint open on the surface and a glittering mountain of mirror shards piled to one side. His deft fingers turned one of the bits over and over until it flashed rainbows around the room. He dipped a brush like a single hair into the bottle and then stroked his sigils in miniature across the glass.

Behind the counter, Hadja's mirror leaned against the wall. Half of the looking glass was gone, and the remainder bore a spider web of cracks. Marten finished painting, placed the newest shard on the heap and then turned to the mirror to pluck another loose. His face reflected across the splintered surface, fractured and skewed by the lines. She loved him.

Worse than that, she'd told him as much.

The room filled with heat. She pushed at the Vision, seeking her exit. The sigil ignored her. She remained while Marten turned back to his work. The brush dipped, the shard flashed and he squinted at it and raised the bristle to its task. The swoops were too tiny to follow. Whatever runes he drew belonged to him alone. He labored at them with absolute focus, and she felt that twinge of guilt again. This moment was no more public that the last, and she had no business watching him.

Marten finished another shard, dropped it on the stack and turned, but this time he didn't retrieve another. Instead, he reached under the counter and withdrew a familiar object. He held it by the spindle, and his other hand tapped at the top disk. He flicked it into a slow spin, but stopped it just as quickly. His fingers brushed over the design. He sighed and then looked up.

She wasn't really there. He couldn't see her, but his eyes settled on the spot where she hovered, and a wash of fear coursed through her. It ebbed soon enough. Marten's gaze didn't focus. He looked, but not at anything in particular. His fingers tapped against the counter, and one side of his mouth twitched with whatever thoughts possessed him.

She reached for him, but she had no arms, and Vision rebelled at the urge. It whisked her away again, over the still town to drop her curtly through the cottage thatch. Her body groaned aloud when she returned to it, and the curtain to her room flipped aside.

"You're back with us, then?" Hadja didn't wait for an answer. She trundled into the room along with a heavy dose of the fruity smell. It wafted from the mug she carried. "You'll want to drink this."

"Vane got away." Satina took the cup and inhaled the steam.

Hajda frowned and then shook her head. "No matter. I doubt he'll be coming back here anytime soon."

"You have no idea." She sipped the brew. The liquid numbed her tongue and sent a ripple of warmth straight to her head. Strong stuff, Hadja's magic.

"We can talk about it all later."

"Are you drugging me again?" The numb feelings spread down her back and out into her fingers and toes. Hadja snatched the cup before she could drop it.

"Better than the alternative," she said.

"Which is?" Already sleep fogged her mind.

"Vomiting, fever, sweating..."

"Ahh." She could live with drugged then. It wasn't so bad, the numbness. It enveloped her in soft tingles, soothed her worries and swept her gently back to sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Two

She didn't dream and considered it a blessing when she woke the second time. The sky outside her window glowed blue-black. She didn't need to see the moon to know that it was full. Her Genrty blood thrummed in her veins, prodding her to sit despite her muscles' complaints. She pushed the covers back and wrinkled her nose. How long had she slept? If the moon was full, by the Powers, she needed a bath!

Hadja had anticipated the need, or else the stench had driven her away. Satina found a shallow basin and a pitcher of water on the room's floor. A stack of rags waited beside it, and she took her time cleaning her body. Her filthy hair required stronger methods, and so she wrapped in only her cloak and limped out into the main room.

No one home. A banked fire warmed a pot of stew. A bowl and spoon waited on the table, but Satina's hair hung in greasy strings. She hobbled out the door and around to the pump to drench her head, first. It took forever. Her arms shook, and she grew tired too quickly, had to stop and rest twice. Too much slumber and no movement had left her body in a weakened state. She returned to the cottage slowly, left her hair dripping and wet and gulped down two bowls of stew before her stomach threatened to vacate its contents.

Where had Hadja gone?

She couldn't wait long. The moon called her, and she shivered with more than the damp of her hair soaking through the wool. She dropped the cloak, spread it in front of the fire and went to fetch a clean shift from her bags. By the time she'd dressed and plaited her hair into a loose, lumpy braid, her limbs twitched to be collecting. Hadja would know this. If she returned and Satina were gone, she'd know why.

It didn't matter anyway. She could no more resist the pull than her own breath. She gathered her smaller bag, spared a wistful thought for the contents Maera had dumped at the ruins, and then retrieved her cloak. Still damp, but warm at least, she scuffled out the door.

The moonlight painted the world blue. Hadja's weeds eased her aches. She turned toward town and fought down a surge of trepidation. Where had Hadja gone? How much loss had the town suffered? She squinted into the blacksmith's shed as she passed, but the forge was cool and dark inside. The town had stood beside Marten, fought the gang at his direction. Now that the dust had settled, how did they feel about her? The woman who'd brought it all down upon them.

The closest pocket would take her through their streets. She didn't have the strength to make the little stair or the ruins. The alleys would have to work. Satina tucked in behind the buildings and began her trek around the town, through the dark and rubble-strewn passages.

She'd worked her way to the town square before her eyes betrayed her. They darted, despite her best efforts, down the side street toward the fountain. And Marten's shop. Something besides water shimmered there. Reflected light danced across the cobblestones and flashed rainbows onto the stones.

She followed the light, chewing her lower lip and creeping down the empty street. The fountain gurgled and spilled water in its circuit and, as soon as she reached the mouth of the alley, Satina saw the source of the sparkles. Marten's mirror shards hung over every doorway. Instead of reflecting, however, the mirror bits projected sigils that shifted and morphed before her eyes. Gentry eyes, she knew, eyes that saw what a human wouldn't.

She squinted at the flickering marks and tried to see how they would look with normal vision. Tags. Her shoulders snapped back. He'd tagged every building in town with...she tried to untangle the marks, but they'd been interwoven too tightly. Both were there, Starlight and Shade, and the two danced back and forth in rapid succession. Why?

She stepped out into the open and looked around. To all sides, the tags sparkled and marked the buildings as both Starlight and Shade territory. What had Marten done? Even his own store bore a shard with warring tags. It also had a new window, a display filled with his returned tools, and no lights on inside.

Steps rang behind her, and she spun, heart leaping. Her joy deflated when she spied the innkeeper. He stood at the base of his steps, offered her a nod and a smile.

"Good evening, goodmother."

"I—good evening."

"It's good to see you up and about."

She stepped back and blinked. He didn't flinch, nor entreat something of her. He only commented. It was nonchalant, casual and neighborly. "Thank you." Her voice trembled.

They stood a moment. The fountain splashed and the gang tags flared and refracted sigils. The town that allowed magic—she never would have imagined it.

"Well then." At last the innkeeper broke the silence. "Good night to you."

"And to you."

She waited till he'd climbed his stairs and disappeared into the inn. Understanding evaded her. Nothing here had been what she'd expected, and maybe therein lay the truth. Maybe her expectations had been the problem all along.

The road beside Marten's shop led out of town. She followed it from the fountain—no need for alleys really—and wandered in a daze toward the twin tree pocket. Someone had posted a sign just before the spot. She had to turn back to read it, and as she did, a shadow leapt from the side of the road. Satina squealed and stumbled away to a chorus of familiar laughter.

"Marten!" Her heart pounded. "You're trying to kill me, now?"

His grin faded. The pose he'd struck sagged a little, but his eyes flashed yellow. He waved one flamboyant arm toward the sign. "Well, what do you think of it?"

She sniffed and turned back to the sign. Her hands trembled, and she wound them into her cloak edge to hide her nerves. The sign had been painted to read: Welcome to Westwood. Below the words, one of the ensorcelled mirror shards did its little trick.

"I'm not sure I understand them." She frowned and tried to sort out his magic.

"Your trinket gave me the idea." He'd snuck up beside her and spoke just over her shoulder. "The opposite effect." He pointed at the twisting marks. "You see? They're keyed to their opposing nature."

"So if I were a Starlight..."

"You'd only see the Shade tag."

"And vise versa."

He laughed, high-pitched and warbling with pride.

"It's brilliant. Do you think it will work?" Any gang member would see Westwood as the enemy's territory. Would that be enough to keep them both out? She could see the potential and a little danger too.

"It can't hurt." Marten shrugged and hopped back. "Shall we?"

"What?"

He held out his arm and waved the other toward the pocket. The moon blazed through a thin filter of trees, and their blood called to them. Satina took a deep breath and placed her hand in his. They crossed the road together.

"Hadja isn't home," she said. "I don't know where she's gone."

"Maera's run off."

Satina stiffened. His hand tugged her toward the rift, but her feet dragged.

"They'll find her," he said. "Stupid girl can't have gone far."

"But..."

"Come." He heaved on her hand and she fell into him. His arms slipped round her, and the rift swallowed them. The pocket painted the whole world golden. "They'll find her." Marten's voice lowered. His grip tightened, and his mouth fell against hers. He kissed her until her lips responded and her body pressed against him of its own volition. Then he shifted just enough to part the worlds, and led her out into a field of glitter.

"Thistledown." She sighed and leaned her head against his chest. The pocket swirled with wind-borne dust. Every blade and leaf caked with it, and the fluffy down could barely lift from the ground for the weight of magic clinging to it.

"I thought we might collect here."

"Where's Henry?"

Marten shook his head, and his eyes grew grim. "I haven't seen him since he carried Vane away."

"Vane's alive." Satina stared out to the shadow of that far-off castle.

Marten tensed. His voice became stone. "How?"

She closed her eyes and pointed to the distant building. "There."

"The castle?"

She nodded and turned her face up to watch his expression. It shifted from fear to anger. His eyes glowed yellow, and his lips tightened. Somehow Vane had slipped their trap though she felt certain Henry would turn up as well. The gargoyle could survive anything a human could have thrown at him.

"It's on an island," she said. "I don't know where exactly."

"Far enough from here, then." He dropped his eyes to her again. They softened, but a frown creased his forehead. "Far enough from you."

"Marten."

"I'm no hero, Satina." He touched her face, lifted her chin and locked their eyes together. "I'm an imp Skinner who somehow managed to convince one, insignificant town to accept him. And we can both thank Hadja for a good deal of that. I'm not—"

"I don't want Prince Charming." She reached up and traced the line of his jaw with a finger. "I never did, Marten."

It took three breaths and then his face softened, his shoulders lifted and his arms drew her in close. "I love you." He brushed a strand of hair back from her face and looked into her eyes. "That's pretty much all I've got."

Satina sighed and leaned against him. She'd never meant to wish a happy ending for herself, had never wanted the story. "That's all I want, Marten. That's all I'll ever need."

Her Imp might make an unlikely hero, but he'd turned into one just the same. Marten was a Granter too in his own way, or maybe, it really was the words that she'd had wrong all along.

She hadn't needed to Grant him. The pockets had landed her exactly where she was supposed to be. She'd never expected it, but then, her expectations had been flawed from the beginning.

She didn't need to save the world, didn't need to prove anything. She needed this. Just him, just this moment, the pocket worlds and a field of magic dust and thistledown. They'd worry about Vane and gobelins tomorrow. They'd find Henry, find Maera and straighten the poor girl out. All of it could wait though. Tonight, it was Satina's wish that mattered.

COMING SOON

HORDED

Kingdoms Gone: Book Two
Chapter One

Had she cared at all about this town, she might have warned them not to wear the Shades' colors, not to mess with gangs at all. Maera swiped her rag across the rough boards and watched the inn door through the veil of her dark hair. A kid entered wearing a black bandana, a thing he didn't understand for a second. He looked just like his father, had a swagger that didn't match his eleven-year-old frame. She sopped up the puddle of ale and moved to the next mess while the town's richest brat picked out a chair by the huge hearth.

He pushed it around and used it for a stair, sitting instead on the table's edge and dangling a pair of new leather boots in front of the fire. Black, she noted, sueded by hand and stitched with the fine, even rhythm of a Gentry needle. His father, it seemed, made an exception of the no consorting law when it suited his own family's needs.

She might have known.

Most of the town ignored the rule, but usually they did so in secret. Now, Miller Ramsten perched on the inn's best table and swung his indiscretion leisurely back and forth for all to see. On purpose, she guessed. The gesture had the flavor of a brag to it—or maybe a dare.

Maera knew better than to take the kid's bait. She knew better than to give any attention to the actions of the young and idiotic. Hellfire, she'd been both of the above not too many years ago. The memory made her cringe even now, and she went back to wiping with more fury than the sticky ale required. Five years hadn't softened her shame much. Her life since fleeing Westwood had offered little chance at redemption.

She ignored the bandana and scrubbed the floor, biting her lower lip and keeping one eye on the door. They didn't get much business this time of day. The men had long since wandered into the hills or tunnels, and their women would be busy about their own cleaning and tasks. While their younger counterparts mined or hunted, the older citizens would take to the shores of the frigid lake to fish for thin, snaggletooth fish and spend the few warm hours of the day engaging one another with stories of the Old Kingdoms.

Such was life at the foot of the Shadow Mountains. Life in Ramstown didn't change any more than the snowline just above the narrow band of forest surrounding it. It was cold and dreary, harsh and a fair ways better than any other town she'd wandered through since Westwood. If the people were coarse, they'd earned it with hard labor. If they treated her with the cool disdain reserved for anything foreign, and therefore uninvited to their town, Maera felt she deserved it. It eased her guilt, the soft thread of hostility. It felt just and, even though it'd dimmed a bit when she'd refused to move on, she welcomed each nasty look, each "accidental" bump or jar in passing, as her due reward for previous sins.

The citizens of Ramstown could serve as her jury and her sentence in ways the friendly faces from her history would never have deigned to oblige her with. The Goodmother—she cringed again at the memory—would have forgiven her. Her family would have blamed the gang. The rest of them, too, perhaps. Justice would have never come, and Maera's guilt would have devoured her in the face of their sympathetic, forgiving hearts.

Here, at least, she could dwell inside the misery she deserved. Here, she could wipe up beer and vomit, endure the nasty glances, and maybe, someday, earn herself a reprieve. In the lee of the mountains, the jagged black peaks that dominated all views from Ramstown, she could let her own heart freeze and die.

The inn's door swung outward, and a blast of icy air swirled in, as if it heard her prayers and arrived just in time to answer them. Four ragged children slipped in through the gap. They swung their eyes around the room and focused immediately on the boy by the fire.

Maera stood and gave them each a good glare. The first three ignored her and wound their way through the chairs to their lead delinquent. The last shuffled his feet and hesitated. His eyes drifted between Miller and the spot where Maera tapped one, barely booted toe at him.

"Jaymi Fayer," she closed in on him, deliberately positioning herself in the path he'd have to take to rejoin his crowd. "You take that hideous thing off your skull this instant."

"Aw, Maera." The ginger haired boy lowered his voice, peeked around her to see if his friends witnessed the shaming, and flashed her a pleading look. "Miller's dad supports them."

"Miller's dad's no more a Shade than fat old Tilly is." She snatched the black cloth from Jaymi's hair with one swipe. He flinched more than the gesture warranted, enough to soften her tone when she continued. "He's never even met one, I'd bet. And it's ridiculous to pretend he has."

Ramstown had little to offer either magical gang. There were no ruins to be had this far north, no magic that she'd witnessed. The villagers boasted a natural fear of it, and loudly proclaimed an aversion to anything associated with the Gentry, Miller's boots notwithstanding. Even the mines only squeezed out enough coal and metal to keep the town itself running smoothly.

She liked it that way, had run north on purpose and found exactly the deficit she'd desired here. They had nothing any gang would want, and so, everything she desired.

Unfortunately, the mayor had a dramatic streak. He had a romantic idea of gang warfare and an overdeveloped sense of power. Not a month after she'd decided to stay on, Ramsten Senior had declared the town Shade turf. He'd painted the symbol on everything, even taken to wearing the customary black and silver and encouraged the rest of his town to do likewise.

Despite her initial urge to bolt, Maera discovered quickly enough that the man's affiliation was all bluster. The markings faded, other colors wove their way back into fashion, and her nerves had settled.

But the young still clung to the idea, and here was Jaymi, sporting a Shade bandana as if it were a badge of honor. She liked Jaymi. Of all the village children, he'd been the kindest to her, had wormed his way into an ally of sorts. At least, the closest thing to an ally she had in town. She waved the colors at him again for good measure.

"He doesn't know what this means any more than you do."

"And I s'pose you do?" He reached for the cloth, but she lifted it higher.

Her nineteen years had given her enough growth to keep the thing out of his reach. Five years since Westwood. She didn't like to think about it, in particular, she wished the intervening time a quick and silent death. "Yes, I do."

"Come on, Maera. They'll tease me horribly."

"Tell me you won't wear it, Jaymi. Promise."

"What about the mayor? He 'spects us to wear them sometimes."

"Fine." She let her arm drop, and the wrap fluttered like an evil flag. "But I don't want to see it on you, hear me? Don't wear it around me."

"I promise." He leapt up and snagged the thing, casting a glance toward his buddies before hitting the boards again. "Are you free at all later? We could take a walk?"

"After work." She nodded and tried to squash the urge to smile. "I'll meet you at the well."

He scurried to rejoin his group. The boys clustered around Miller, had probably missed her chat with Jaymi, missed his delay completely. Still, she remembered what it was like to have friends, to have that kind of pressure. She should cut him a break on the colors. She shouldn't have embarrassed the poor kid.

Except the idea of any gang touched off her own guilt. The sight of that stupid symbol, even if it was the wrong one, took her straight back to her own stupidity. She growled and tossed her rag into the bucket of filthy suds. The boys' voices squeaked their impressed reaction to Miller's boots. She was due a break, stormed to the kitchen and past the larger hearth raging inside. Old Tilly hunched over a pot of vegetables, paring knife flashing, and dropping chunks into yesterday's broth. The woman didn't even look up, only grunted something unintelligible but derisive just the same, as Maera slid out the back.

She let the door slam in answer. The air stung her cheeks and hands. Ramstown didn't tolerate much in the way of exposed skin, and not just because of the climate. Her sleeves had grown rapidly, and the high hems she'd taken to wearing on the road had had to come down again. It didn't bother her. A fourteen-year-old on her own learns quickly how to adjust to suit a group. She'd learned how to blend and more, more she didn't care to relive, after abandoning her life in Westwood.

The inn backed up to a courtyard. The stones paving it looked Old Kingdoms, but she couldn't be certain and didn't talk enough with anyone to ask. A block of shops all shared the space, and a sturdy, recently renovated well occupied the center. Once, perhaps, the ring of buildings had taken their water from its bowels. Now it provided only a ledge for tired bottoms to rest upon between shifts.

Maera trudged to the stones and tucked under a few folds of extra skirt before sitting. The chill still worked its way through the homespun, but with less ice in its touch. A light breeze brought enough of that down from the snowy tips, and she spared a scowl for their distant outlines. So far north that Westwood could never chase her down. She supposed it was far enough to consider permanent.

She didn't need to feel restless now, didn't need the twitch in her feet that had kept her one step ahead of one gang or the other. Even the smudged outline of the Shades symbol on the back of the inn didn't push at her any longer. Maera eyed its four wedges, pie pieces inside an invisible circle, and felt only the kiss of frigid wind.

It hissed at her, a soft, wavering breath. It almost said her name, and then it was her name, and the wind couldn't possibly hold the blame. She turned her head from side to side, found a stout silhouette crouched outside the weaver's back door. Its owner hissed again, waved one arm out from under a lacey shawl and called aloud, "Maera, stupid girl. Move!"

"What?"

The shop woman only waved madly in answer. Her hand stabbed at the air, one finger pointing toward the well until Maera understood and looked closer at the stones. A short stack of silver teetered only a few feet around the rim from where she sat. She might easily have knocked the coin into the depths, and wondered even, if that had been the plan. Who left that much coin perched on the lip of a well?

"Move!" The hiss lifted to a shout. Whatever the woman was up to, she didn't care for Maera's proximity to her offering. The shawl dropped to the ground as her arms started in again, waving wildly now, making a dance of the warning.

Maera sighed and stood up. She adjusted her skirts without hurry and earned another hiss from the weaver's wife. Stupid as it was to leave money lying about, leaving it here went even farther. It wouldn't take much of a bump to knock that tower of silver into the well, and just for a moment, in the wake of the incessant hissing, Maera considered it. She pushed the evil thought aside and took one step away from the stones, glancing back just to make certain she hadn't done the deed on accident. Her eyes fixed on the flash of coin, confused for a moment and unwilling to register what she saw. Her heart held a beat. Her breath froze like the mountains and refused to move.

A hand reached for the coins. It emerged from thin air, trailing a stubby wrist that simply cut off in a perfect line as if it belonged to no body. The skin had a gray cast, reminiscent of Westwood's impish resident but darker and with dirt caked into each knuckle, lining every wrinkle and tinting the long, pointed nails as the knobby fingers stretched toward the coin. They found it easily without the aid of visible eyes. They snatched the money and pulled, vanishing into the ether again.

Maera's breath rushed out. She took another step away, stretching the stride to put more distance between the well and her person. A patter of steps approached, but she couldn't tear her eyes from the spot where the hand had been.

"Stupid!" The weaver's wife snarled beside her now. "If you've done scared him away with my..."

"Look!" Maera's hand came up on its own. She pointed now, feeling foolish but unable to resist the urge.

The impish hand had returned, this time with its twin and both held a package between them. They still had no body, and her mind adjusted enough now to venture a guess why and exactly what purpose the well might still serve in Ramstown. The hands laid the bundle on the stones and retreated back into what had to be a pocket. She'd enough experience with those to guess that was what faced her now. She'd been through one, even, once upon a time.

"A pocket." Speaking the word out loud fixed the idea in her mind. It had to be. "There's a pocket here?"

"Agh." The weaver's wife snatched up her bundle and held it to her chest. She didn't leave, however, only looked at Maera with a frown creasing her forehead. "Secret pocket."

She shifted her weight back and forth. The bundle she'd purchased was wrapped in thin cloth, but Maera saw the bulges and the shapes, guessed that there were spools inside. The old woman didn't appreciate the appraisal. She growled and stamped one foot against the stones.

"Come on, then, with me."

The woman only came up to her chest, and she had a slighter frame than Tilly, if just as much ire. Maera had no good reason to obey her command, and yet, she followed without thinking, her curiosity too bent on the strange exchange to consider diverting anyway.

She'd left it all behind her, of course. The pockets meant magic, and her fantasies about that had led her into nothing but trouble. She'd outgrown them, had made herself outgrow them, after she betrayed her entire town for their sake.

Or had it really been for the man? For Vane? She didn't know anymore, but she knew enough to feel a sense of dread as she stepped up onto the weaver's porch. She'd stumbled into it again, into power and Gentry and things that she had no business paying attention to. Maera knew what sort of creature owned those gray hands, and she wanted no part of it, no contact. She didn't want to remember.

Her feet stalled at the back door. She blurted out a desperate attempt. "I should get back to work."

"Agh." The weaver's wife waved her inside and stared, waited for her to obey with the mystery package hugged close to her body and the glint of secrets in her eyes.

She should have turned and run. If anyone knew that, it was Maera. Ramsten's rule was no contact with the Gentry. Officially, Ramstown was magic-free, but she'd seen infractions more often than not. This last bit shouldn't have surprised her. It shouldn't have lured her in. She knew better.

And yet, she followed, step by step, in the weaver's wake, followed the mystery package into the shop with the memory of gray hands fixed firmly in her mind, and a spark she'd meant to kill flickering in her chest.

Author's Note

Thank you for reading, Unlikely. If you enjoyed the book, please consider leaving a review on the site of your choice. If you have any questions, concerns or comments, my email is: author@francespauli.com

About the Author

Frances Pauli writes speculative fiction with touches of humor and romance which means, of course, that she has trouble choosing sides.

She's always been a fan of anything odd or unusual, and that trend follows through to her tales which feature aliens, fairies, and even, on occasion, the assortment of humans.

Her short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies and e-zines. Her romances are published through Devine Destinies, and her Urban Fantasy and Science Fiction series are published by Mundania Press LLC.

You can find all of these along with: free reads, a few web serials, some podcasts, and other surprises as well as various means of following or contacting her on her website.

http://francespauli.com

Also available:

THE CHANGELING RACE

A Moth in Darkness

The Fly in Paradise

Spiders from Memory

SHIFT HAPPENS

The Dimensional Shift

Aspect Ratio

Echo Location

Space Slugs

Roarke

Lords of Oak and Holly

New Canterbury Affair

Friend or Foe

Thrice Shy

Twelve Dances

Divine Intervention

Man on Fire

A Little Short for an Alien

