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my mother’s name?” I asked Joscelin.
    “Really?” He looked surprised. “You never told me.”
    “It was.”
    So began our wanderings through the mountains of Siovale. We gained the lower pastures, where Beryl and Ti-Michel pointed us toward the rock fall of which they had spoken, a narrow ledge along a chasm, dangerous with overhanging crags. After making our precarious way past the cleared rock fall, we ascended to the further pastures, flat areas where the tall grass grew, perfect for spring grazing and fall harvest. There was nothing to see, but it gave us our starting-point.
    We had marked the towns and villages searched on our map, and Brother Othon had left markers of his own along the mountain trails, scratching Elua’s sigil onto rocks and trees in areas already combed. He was right; the search had been thorough. For two days, Joscelin and I rode in broadening arcs, keeping a keen eye out for Othon’s signs. It reminded me of travelling along the Tsingani routes, searching for chaidrov , the secret markers with which they indicated their passing. We met a few folk along the way, shepherds mostly, who shook their heads, able to tell us nothing.
    After two days, we ceased to find Othon’s scratchings and I had begun to suspect that our search was fruitless. Still, we continued, until I was heartily sick of making camp in mountain meadows and bathing in icy streams.
    “There’s a village ... here.” Joscelin glanced up from the map, watching as I struggled to draw a comb through my hopelessly tangled tresses. “We could make it by nightfall, and be in Verreuil by midday tomorrow.”
    “Let’s do it.” The comb stuck. I drew it out with a muttered curse. “I’m not going to see your family looking like I’ve been sleeping in a bird’s nest.”
    He grinned at me. “You look like a maiden out of legend, fresh-tumbled by Elua.”
    “I feel like I’ve tumbled fresh out of a hedgerow,” I retorted.
    Joscelin laughed. “You still look beautiful. Come on, then. The village by nightfall, and we’ll beg lodgings if they don’t have an inn. I wouldn’t mind a hot bath, either.”
    We made good time in the morning, reaching the deep divide that led southward to Aragonia-and then lost time in conversation with the merchants of a trade caravan, who had no news of any errant children matching Imriel’s description, but a bitter tale of being cheated by Tsingani horse-traders. I held my tongue at their ire, though it galled me. It is true that the Tsingani take great joy in getting the better of the gadje , but it is equally true that most of the gadje bring it on themselves, seeking to do the same and making a virtue of it.
    Afterward, we pushed too hard to make up for the delay, and one of the mules slipped on loose scree, straining a foreleg. Our pace slowed to a limping gait, and it grew obvious that we weren’t going to make the village before dark. Joscelin rode ahead to scout out a campsite as dusk grew night, returning in good spirits.
    “We’re closer than we thought,” he said. “There’s a dairy-crofter’s in the next valley. They make cheese to sell at market. I spoke to the husband; he said they’d give us lodging and fare for coin. And a hot bath.” He grinned. “I asked.”
    “Elua be thanked!” I said fervently.
    Darkness was falling by the time we made our halting way to the valley, and the crofter met us with a lantern, leading us to an unused paddock by the cow-byre where we could turn our mounts and the mules loose for the night, piling our saddles and packs under the shelter of a lean-to. He introduced himself as Jacques Ecot and said little more, taciturn and withdrawn. I was surprised at his wife, Agnes, a petite woman with features that should have been vivacious, but for the sorrow that haunted her eyes.
    It was only the two of them, alone in their croft. Agnes bustled about, heating water for the bath and laying out her best linens at the table, showing us to a neat bedchamber with whitewashed walls, a child’s chest-of-drawers and a bed with a lovingly hand-sewn quilt atop it. I brushed my hand over the counterpane, wondering, but asked no questions.
    We had our baths, Joscelin and I alike, and he lent a hand hauling water and emptying the tub. I watched the muscles bunch and gather in his forearms, remembering the first time I’d seen him perform simple menial chores. We had been slaves together, he and I, sold into bondage in a Skaldi steading. It seemed