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flattened against the wall, stared at the gap in starved disbelief.
    The second board, better nailed, came harder. Erich loosened one end, but the other was fixed tight and flush and his fingers could find no purchase. Silent as ever, he shook his head.
    “ Shamash !” The curse came from behind me; I turned to see Uru-Azag snatch the curved dagger all the Akkadians wore from his belt. “Lady,” he said, handing it to me. “Give him this.”
    Erich worked the thin blade under the board, prying down on the hilt. The wood creaked, and the nails gave-only an inch, but enough to get his fingers beneath the board. His strength did the rest. And there was the gap, large enough to admit a person.
    “Tell him to dig out the nail-holes,” a woman’s voice said in zenyan. I turned to see a Carthaginian woman, and several others watching behind her. “My father was a carpenter,” she said. “If he widens the holes, we can put back the planks and Nariman will not see.”
    I nodded, relaying her instructions in Skaldic. Erich worked the point of the dagger into the holes, enlarging them. Despite the cold air, beads of sweat stood on his forehead.
    “Like so,” the Carthaginian said, going to help him. Together, they fit the upper board back in place. It held. The lower board proved more stubborn, two of the nails bent. “Here,” she said, passing it back, miming pounding with a hammer. “Someone. The nails must be made straight.”
    Taking the board gingerly, two Ephesian women laid it on the floor and began beating at the bent nails with the heels of their slippers. By now, nearly half the zenana had crowded around to watch. A Chowati berated them, attempting to describe a better method. One of the Akkadian eunuchs came over to kneel beside them, drawing his dagger and pounding the nails with the hilt.
    “Rushad,” I murmured, slipping through the crowd to find him. “Someone should watch for Nariman’s return.”
    “It is already being done, lady.” He pointed toward the latticed door, where two Menekhetans stood watch at careful angles.
    A stifled cheer went up from the assembled group; the nails were straightened, and the board fit snug once more. To the casual observer, it looked unaltered. Erich removed the boards, and they came easily. He leaned them both against the alcove, and went back to take up his post once more, sitting with his back to the wall.
    Everyone else stood staring spellbound at two feet of cold air and grey light.
    Imriel, taut and quivering, caught my eye, and there was a naked plea on his face.
    “Yes.” I nodded. “Go.”
    Like a flash, he crawled through the gap. Now that it was done, no one else dared follow, awed by the audacity of what we had done. I stood irresolute, longing to go, but fearful of putting myself forward. Whatever had happened here, it was a fragile alliance. If they remembered how much they despised me, it would die an early death.
    “Lady,” said Uru-Azag, pointing at me. “Your place is second.”
    It was better, coming from him. It left me no choice. Walking slowly through the crowd, I mounted the stair, gathering my skirts about me. I had to duck low to clamber through the opening, and the rough planks caught at my hair.
    And then I was through, and there was frozen earth beneath my knees, a dizzying sense of openness above me. I stood up, gasping, filling my lungs with searingly cold air. Elua, the sky! It was wintry and grey and utterly magnificent. At the farthest corner of the garden stood Imriel, arms wrapped about himself, teeth chattering, a look of pure delight on his face.
    Others followed, after that; not many, when all was said and done. The Carthaginian carpenter’s daughter came, and two Chowati. An Akkadian woman with haughty brows, but none of the eunuchs. I did not blame them. They had done as much as they dared, and more. One of the Ephesians poked her head through the opening and withdrew, shivering. It was cold, it is true, terribly cold. For once, I did not care, nor that the garden was completely barren. It was mayhap thirty paces on each side, a dry fountain at its center, stone walls thrice as high as a man’s head encompassing dead soil and crumbling paths. I saw tears in the eyes of the carpenter’s daughter as she stumbled across the frozen sod, gazing at the sky.
    In that place, it was a paradise.
    “Smell,” said one of the Chowati, sniffing the air. “Spring comes behind the cold.”
    It put me in mind of