Carefully, she put her hand in his, felt his fingers exert brief, warm pressure and then withdraw, leaving something light and cool in her palm. She cupped her hand and turned it over, revealing a tael-blossom.

“Named for the berry that gives the good wine,” murmured Lute. “Heedless, but not cruel. And the elder sister’s a shrew.”

Moonhawk glanced up. “You think she left with forethought—and intent?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps they argued—the shrew and the heedless one—or perhaps love’s veil was somehow shredded and she saw that dull young fellow for the boor he is.”

“Quick judgments, Master Lute,” she chided him. “You were with them for less than a quarter-glass.”

“It’s my business to make quick judgments,” he said, unperturbed. “Magic must be good for something, after all.” He waved a hand at the hourglass, now three-quarters done. “We shall soon have the opportunity to make less hurried appraisals. And then you will do your magic.”

“Then I will ask the assistance of the Goddess in the pursuit of truth,” Moonhawk corrected austerely, and he sighed.

* * *

“I WILL REQUIRE a new candle,” Moonhawk told Aster; “a length of string or thin rope and something that belongs to Tael—preferably something she often had about her.”

“At once,” said Aster, face glowing with the half-sick hope that had filled her all through the meal, so that she pushed her food around the bowl and shredded the good, warm bread into untasted crumbs. She turned to her eldest, who was hovering with Cedar by the fire. “Senna. Bring Lady Moonhawk what she requires.”

“Yes, mother,” the girl said quickly enough, though her mouth was turned down with ill temper. She bustled out and returned with a new candle in a wooden holder, a cord of fine white wool, a bright blue cloak and a string of pierced beads. She placed them, one by careful one, on the table, saw Moonhawk’s eye on the cloak and faltered, a blush warming her cheeks.