She did look at him then, for the fine voice carried an undercurrent of what—had it not been Lute—she would have identified as worry. “I have done this before” she said, wishing it didn’t sound quite so tart. “It’s a very simple spell.”

“Nothing can go wrong,” he agreed pleasantly, then brought a fingertip to his lips. “But here I am babbling when you require silence! Forgive me, Lady.” He sank soundlessly to the bench and folded his hands in his lap. “Silent as the dead, you find me. My master insisted upon the same condition when he was working, so neither of us is novice at our task.”

Far more distracting to argue with him than to acquiesce; which she did with a tip of the head. She then ignored him, closing her eyes and offering the prayers that would ready her for the work.

Lute bent forward on his bench, foreboding like a chill handful of stone in his belly.

Moonhawk’s breathing deepened; the lines smoothed out of her face, leaving it at once childlike and distantly cruel. She raised her left hand, eyes still closed, pointed a finger and lit the candle. She lowered the hand, laid it on the coil of twine and pulled in the necklace, holding it in her right hand.

She opened her eyes.

“By the grace, with the aid and in the Name of the Mother, I reach out to the one called Tael.” with a smooth flip of the wrist, she hurled the necklace far across the kitchen, paying out the twine until the beads hit the stone flooring with a rustling clink.

“With the will of She who Is, I call Tael to me.” Moonhawk intoned, and began, slowly, to pull in the cord.

It came easily at first, sliding over the stones with a half-audible murmur. But midway to the table the cord faltered in its smooth passage through Moonhawk’s fingers, picked up—and faltered again.

Lute craned forward, gravel-dread gone to ice in his gut, saw the necklace move jerkily into the circle of light cast by the candle—and stop altogether.