“I-perhaps I am. I know not what to do. I don’t know if I’m talking to my beloved or to Elminster holding you captive in your own head… or facing something more sinister. Shapechangers once infested the Wheloon lands, and the war wizards never got them all.”

Amarune sighed out fresh frustration and took a step back. “I am myself, thank you, Arclath. Though I have no idea how I’ll be able to prove it to you.”

She started to pace, and then she stopped and flung back at him over one bare shoulder, “Can you take nothing on trust?”

The young lord gave her a crooked smile. “Evidently not.”

She took an imploring step back toward him, reaching out-but he raised his sword again, adding in a growl, “I dare not.”

Rune glared at him, tears spilling over, and whispered, “So what will you have me do, Arclath?”

They stared at each other for what seemed a long time, as the brazier crackled.

“And what,” Rune whispered, tears running down her face, “will you be able to do, to make me ever trust you again, Lord Delcastle? Answer me that!”

The shop doorbell tinkled merrily as the heavily scented merchant’s wife sailed out, pleased with her purchase.

The alchemist sat back with a sigh, glad to see the back of her. Sixteen vials sampled, none chosen, and an ointment that had been buried on a high back shelf beneath three seasons’ dust preferred instead. By a woman who seemed to think it was highsun and not the middle of the night when weary men must be roused from their beds to serve her. Gods-cursed highnoses…

He set to work tidying up. “If I didn’t need so stlarned much coin just to live in this noble-infested city…”

A sympathetic chuckle from behind the curtain over his shoulder reminded Sraunter that he wasn’t alone.