And found a thing about the size of her thumb, dimpled and light… a frenal nut! As she cast around she found more; there was a rain of them now. She’d wanted food, and here was food, of a sort. If she could just have enough strength to face them once more—There was a louder flutter, and a keening. A large bird swooped past her head, settled in on the stone floor. She could hear it walking, could almost make out its form in the night.

The bird’s head bobbed and it dropped an offering—a harvest plum. As it jumped into the air she saw its markings in the distant light: a hawk it was…

* * *

IN THE MORNING Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza was declared dead by her mother, in open court. It was a minor thing. Being a civil matter its transmission to the world was delayed by a more important announcement.

This more important announcement went first to the rest of the Names who Lived, who meditated upon it for some hours before declaring officially to the Temple that Moonhawk was dead. Thence to the underlings went the news: those who would take the message to other Temples in the City, with the true and proper story: young Moonhawk had turned back the theft of all that was Holy and returned to the Temple a key to Balance: in so doing her mission for the Mother in this life was fulfilled, and she had returned to the fold.

* * *

In the Temple basement a lone guard stared down at the prisoner a long time before nudging her awake with his foot. He’d considered—but no, not in the Temple, and not with that damn bird staring down at him from the empty lamp holder.

“Get up, you,” he said, kicking at her a little harder. “Get out!” He threw her a rough and ragged shift, a castaway from the alms box.

“If you ain’t out by next chant you’re up for trespassing in the Temple! Can’t trust any of you Nameless.”