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I woke with a headache and a strong memory of a head falling into a basket. The more recent memory was Broset Sheveldar’s execution, but of course my mind persisted in showing me Evru’s face, his cropped scalp.

Sometimes I questioned the wisdom of keeping a lock of his hair so near my bed.

I rubbed my face and dragged myself from the warm, tousled blankets. The application of cold water with a washrag allowed me to at least pretend to wakefulness. I dressed carefully and went out to the Hanevo Tree for oslov and black orchor.

The morning at my office in the Prince Zhaicava Building was unrelieved boredom, which was both a blessing and a curse. After a midday meal of a cheese roll from a cart, I gave up on sensible work and went over to the Vermilion Opera.

The goblin boy in the ticket booth waved me in. I quietly opened one leaf of the great double doors in the back of the auditorium and slipped inside.

A sweet, thin soprano voice greeted me. Iäna and his assistant Thoramis were in the center of the orchestra seating, a few rows back from the stage, watching the rehearsal. Onstage, a young boy and an even younger girl were standing hand in hand. Both were goblin dark, with Elvish features and striking eyes. The blue-eyed boy was the singer, but even as I slipped into a seat some rows behind Iäna, the lad faltered and stuttered to a stop. Iäna sighed and slapped his notebook, exasperated.

The little girl onstage stamped her foot. “That’s three times, Camba!” Her voice was a forceful shriek, and her orange eyes were smouldering.

“Tarëan,” said Iäna, his tone weary. “Who is the director here?”

Tarëan dropped the boy’s hand, pushing out her bottom lip as part of a fearsome grimace. Then she seemed to get hold of her temper and dropped a beautiful courtesy, her face now a perfectly winsome mask of regret. “You are, Mer Pel-Thenhior.”

“Correct. So if anyone is going to reprimand Camba, it will be myself or Mer Thoramis. And I assure you, Camba knows exactly how many times he has forgotten that line.”

The boy, shame-faced, looked at his feet and nodded.

“I think you both need a rest,” Iäna continued. “Go to matron. She will sort you out. Now, let’s have our band of unborn babes.”

A group of half a dozen very young children pattered onstage, led by the chorus master. The little ones wore knitted vests and knickers in their skin tones, either pale rose or ash grey, apparently suggesting bare skin. Iäna nodded and said, “Have them begin with their first chorus, Sagra.”

The chorus master raised his hands, then gave the children two soft notes. They started to sing in a simple harmony, treble and alto, very high. They were singing about their existence in a land of rainbow clouds, waiting to be born, and the effect was unearthly and beautiful. Iäna was nodding along. As they finished the last few notes, he rose to his feet. “Excellent, my unborn babes! That is exactly what I wanted to hear. Now, your farewell to the visitors.”

However, at this point, several of the unborn babes had noticed me beyond Iäna and were unable to stop flicking their gazes from me to their director. One of them giggled. Iäna pivoted and saw me.

He gave me a swift smile, warm and genuine. “Ah, Othala Celehar. Very good!” He turned back to the children. “Now you have a real visitor. Sing your farewell to the othala!”

The chorus master smiled and by gestures got the children to turn in my direction. When they were all facing me, he gave them their notes again. They responded with another high, sweet tune, bidding farewell and good luck to the “visitors from the land of the living.” They were all smiling at me. It was disconcerting to be the focus of so many young faces, but it was also pleasant, not unlike the feeling I got from feeding the cats.

Iäna rose and addressed them. “Very nice singing! Not such big smiles, though. Remember that you are from a soft, cloudy place where nothing is very exciting. You are happy to have visitors, but not so very happy as we all are, here and now, to see Othala Celehar. Thoramis, take the chorus of stars next, and then the hours. That will end the children’s rehearsal for the day. I will see you later.”

He handed his assistant his closed notebook, capped his pen and tucked into his waistcoat pocket, and came to join me. “Come with me, if you will,” he said.

I followed him out into the lobby. He stopped and passed one hand over his face, suddenly showing a weariness he had hidden from his young singers.

“Whatever is amiss?” I asked.

“When did you arrive? Were Camba and Tarëan still onstage?”

“Yes. He missed his line, and she scolded him.”

“It’s been like that all afternoon. Camba has by far the best voice of any of our boys this year, but he is horrifically shy. This is his first year with a company; before that, he sang only for his family and in some neighborhood festivals. He was fine in the children’s chorus this summer, but now we need a really good voice for the boy Tezha in The Little Green Dove, which we plan to open in five weeks. It’s essentially the lead part. And I don’t think he can do it.” Iäna was as solemn as I’d ever seen him.

“Have the company any alternatives?”

“There’s young Torcis Branimar, but he looks a classical elf: fair skin, grey eyes, blond hair. It will be asking the audience a lot to accept him as Tarëan’s elder brother. And I really want the children to be goblins: they’re supposed to be the offspring of charcoal burners, and who does that job in this region but goblins? I may have to go with a girl. Tarëan’s elder sister Sevrano would be the easiest choice, but she’s getting beyond the child roles. She’s started pinning up her hair on dressy occasions, and she’s becoming a full soprano: we’ve been rehearsing her with the adult chorus. We’d have to bind her chest a bit too, although her height hasn’t kept pace. She’s still less than a head taller than her sister.”

“Would binding her chest affect her voice?”

“Perhaps. But she’s a clever mimic: with the binding as a reminder, likely she could pull off a reasonable imitation of her childish treble.”

He hummed a few bars of music, presumably from Tezha’s part in the opera, then stopped abruptly and turned to me with a smile. “Yes, Sevrano will make a passable boy. You have already helped me with the problem.”

I remembered what my mentor had said about listening, and petitioners solving their own problems, and returned the smile. “I’m glad. Do you still need a distraction?”

“I think so. I’m still too agitated to be at my best with the children: it's hard to give up my ambition to debut Camba in a big role for the Wintertide season.”

I thought for a moment. The trouble was, Iäna was far more capable than I when it came to creating amusements. On the other hand, he had asked me, so he had only himself to blame for what I suggested. “A walk, then?”

“I can see that a walk might be soothing, but mid-autumn? In town?”

“The weather is unusually pleasant for the time of year, although that may mean rain this evening. Have you ever been to the Chalk Hill section of Tenemora?”

Iäna frowned in thought. “I don’t believe so. What is interesting about it?”

“You’ll see when you get there. Come, let’s get on the tram.”

“Just let me get my overcoat,” he answered, and then we left.

By the time we got to Tenemora, the bits of the blue sky we had seen earlier were covered with pale grey clouds, and the air had a faint smell of rain. As we left the ostro, we could see the last few compounds of the noble families who yet remained in the district, as well as others that had been rebuilt into pleasant blocks of flats, sometimes with respectable shops at the street level. The builders had been wise in leaving trees where they could. There was a pleasant, purposeful bustle of people shopping and the cheery near-chaos of children released from lessons. Behind the buildings rose Chalk Hill, not all that high but noticeable for the bare patches that revealed the chalk beneath. The rest of it was covered with low-growing shrubs and herbaceous plants, with a small tree here and there.

“Well, this is indeed a good place to walk,” said Iäna. “Perhaps we might get some tea on our way back: I see some likely shops. I take it that that is the titular Chalk Hill?”

“It is, and that is where we are going.”

As soon as we reached the main street we were accosted by a group of children in exaggeratedly ragged and patched clothing. “A zhasan, merrai, a zhas' for the bonfire!” they implored.

I was all too aware that I needed all my small coinage for the gas meter at home, but Iäna chuckled and reached into his waistcoat pocket, bringing out a handful of small change.

“Better save a few,” I said. “I am sure this is only the first of many bonfire gangs we’ll meet.”

“But othala, ours will be the best!” asserted one of the youngsters staunchly. It was a girl, I thought.

Iäna counted out one zhasan for each child and sent them on their way. “Did you build bonfires for Autumn Eve when you were a boy?” he asked me.

“The household did, but I wasn’t allowed to roam the streets myself at that age. I’m sure these children will have a more interesting Autumn Eve than I had. Was bonfire building with friends part of your childhood as well?”

“It was. Mama had no cares about me when I was with friends, or at least, none she would admit.”

We turned off the main avenue at Park Street, which pointed at the hill like an arrow. As I predicted, we were twice more accosted by bonfire gangs. Iäna paid up with unflagging good humor. “Although they are going to have to start splitting five- and ten-zhasan coins soon,” he said.

As we got to the end of the street, we came to a small gatehouse set in a wrought iron fence. An elderly part-goblin woman peered out at us with sharp red eyes. She grunted with apparent satisfaction and unlatched the gate, “You’ll just have time to walk the paths and return before the rain, merrai,” she said.

“Thank you, Dachenmaro,” I said, and Iäna nodded.

We strolled the landscaped paths up to the top of the hill, admiring the clever landscaping. There were few flowers at this time of year, and those mostly purple or white, but brightly colored leaves were blowing about from the carefully tended trees. And we saw no one else. “Are the children not allowed in?” asked Iäna.

“One or three children perhaps, but not groups as large as we’ve seen today. The gatekeepers use their judgment.”

“Yes, I can see that. To think I never knew this was here,” said Iäna. “Although Amalo wouldn't seem to be the sort of place that would spend money on a park.”

“It’s not,” I answered. “Nor are most cities, if it comes to that. But the last of the Lenorada was a woman named Ladeän who was a passionate gardener, and she had made friends of her servants and some of the townsfolk who were kindred souls when it came to gardening. When she died, she left most of the grounds of her estate to the city with very strict instructions as to how it should be managed, including a trust to pay for upkeep and the gatekeepers. When we come to the top of Chalk Hill, you’ll see a marker explaining all that.”

At the top, we were able to see most of the city in one direction, and the mountains in the other. We were also unprotected from the increasingly moody wind, which pestered us with small gusts from one direction and then the other. At the other foot of the hill, opposite where we had entered the park, was the other gate, and also the Ulchedoree cemetery, faced by a few small walled compounds across Tenemora Street.

“Ah,” said Iäna. “So it seems we need not retrace our path to get out.”

“No, not at all,” I said. “See, that’s the same main road that we crossed when we left the ostro, just outside of the gate. We’ll follow it along Ulchedoree, and there, just before the shops start up again, there’s another ostro.”

“Perhaps there’s a tea shop there as well.”

“One can hope. But look at that bank of dark clouds pushing toward us. We may be happy to get on the tram and leave.”

“Perhaps,” Iäna conceded. We started our descent, hurrying a little as the feeling of heavy weather grew stronger, the winds tossing the fallen red and gold leaves in a manner more threatening than picturesque. When we hastened past the other gatehouse, the one-eyed elderly elf within it waved us on. “Aye, be off before you’re soaked!” he called to us.

It was a pity that we couldn’t spend time appreciating Ulchedoree. Its tidy grounds were well-kept by the same team of groundskeepers who maintained the park, and its low stone walls marked its boundaries without actually forbidding visitors. The ulimiere and its chapel were simple structures much older than the rows of shops, let alone the tram line. The darkening sky made the lights shining from the chapel windows glow like gold.

Suddenly the moody late afternoon was rent by children’s shrieks, not at all the friendly shouts that we’d met at the other end of the park. “Merrai, help, help!”

I wrenched my gaze back from the peaceful prospect of the ulimiere. Several children were racing pell-mell through the gate of the cemetery. A skinny half-goblin boy, his yellow eyes leaking tears, was the first to reach us.

“What has happened, minchen?” asked Iäna.

“It came up, out of the ground!” gasped the boy, waving his arms and hopping from foot to foot as though his feet wanted to keep running.

My heart and gut clenched. It was barely dark enough out for a ghoul, but what else could it be? The other four children had caught up with their fellow. “Children!” I said sternly, and my graveled voice at full volume was enough to catch their attention. “You must tell us everything you remember of what you just saw.” I nodded to a sturdy boy with elvish features, pearl-grey skin, and deep red eyes, who seemed the most calm. “You start.”

“Othala, we were looking for gravetop weeds. Rugalo’s sister told us that their great aunt said that burning those in the Autumn Eve bonfire would give us visions of the year to come. We wanted to try it, so we cut along right after lessons. Of course the newer graves wouldn’t have weeds, so we went back into the oldest section. The tree roots are coming up into the oldest graves there, even though there are newer ones nearby. And there were lots of weeds.”

The tallest boy, apparently pure goblin and almost old enough for a real job, took up the tale. “So we started picking weeds, and then Kimbro yelled. He said something had grabbed his ankle!”

“Which of you is Kimbro?” asked Iäna.

The yellow-eyed boy spoke up: “Me.”

“Show me your ankle,” I ordered, kneeling down to look. He put that foot forward. The stocking was pulled down and partially off over his shoe, but the skin was simply earth-streaked.

“You are fortunate,” I said. “What did you see when you looked?”

“It was earthen clods, and like, bones and meat! But not together like a skeleton, just sort of bundled together,” said Kimbro.

“And it really stank,” said the eldest boy. “Like the rubbish bin behind the butcher’s when it’s past time to be cleaned.”

“Then what happened?” I asked.

“Urmis yelled ‘Run! Run for the gate!’ So we did that,” said Kimbro.

The red-eyed boy asked, his voice hushed, “Was it a ghoul, othala?”

All eyes were on me, including Iäna’s. “It could well be,” I said. “We must go look.”

“Not by yourself,” said Iäna. He was frowning fiercely.

I drew a breath. “You boys can be a great help. Do you see the ulimiere there? Run, tell them Othala Clelehar says there may be a ghoul. Make sure they know where. Tell them we need men with shovels and lanterns. Go now! You need not go within the walls of the cemetery: there’s a separate entrance with a drive for hearses. Run!”

“Othala Celehar?” said the eldest, astonished. “You were in the newspapers!”

I sighed. “Yes, we were. Run off now, please!”

After the children departed, Iäna turned to fix me with his golden eyes. “You are not going by yourself,” he repeated.

“Can you take my orders?” I asked. Iäna was a good-sized man, and no doubt much stronger than I was. “Both our lives may depend on it.”

He gestured assent, and we turned to follow the way the children had come. The clouds were almost overhead now, and the smell of rain was growing strong. Despite the increasing gloom and the manicured paths, the path of the terrified youngsters could be seen in grass trodden down the the edges of the walkways. We followed their footprints back to the section farthest from the road but toward the ulimiere. Several old trees grew near the wall there, and no one seemed to have raked the fallen leaves recently.

“Here,” I said. A large stone, tilted crookedly toward the wall, was carved with the name Gosaranad. A dozen old graves marked with slightly weather-blurred stone tablets were before it, well-grown with weeds, as the children had said. I could see the uprooted weeds they'd dropped in their flight.

There were three newer graves, two with proper stones, the names sharply etched, and one with nothing but a wooden marker overgrown with fungus. The ground of that one was burst from beneath. “Mer Pel-Thenhior,” I said. “Put your back to this tree. See if you can break off one of these branches: any weapon is better than none. The ghoul, if that is what it is, must be nearby.”

He did as I asked, and then we both looked around, straining our eyes against the dank gloom. The first drops of fine rain began to fall, and suddenly, there was the undead, erupting from a wind-driven drift of dead leaves piled up against the wall. In truth, it was almost as pitiable as it was terrifying, a strikingly small ghoul. A child, it must have been, no older than the boys it had attacked. I reached out for its name, and it swerved toward me.

Iäna struck it with the broken branch, a timber almost three fingers thick and studded with the broken stumps of smaller limbs, and it rocked back. As it gathered itself, distracted by its attacker, I found what I sought.

“Isthano Gosaran, I know thy name!” I called. “Child, I know thy death!” (A cold gone bad, becoming a bronchine that his parents could not cure, the boy drowning in his own fluids as they filled his lungs, coughing out his life in pain and terror.) “Thou hast been wrongly woken from thy peaceful sleep, michen. Thou must rest again!”

The apparition of bone and flesh and earth turned toward me again. Then it started to crumple in on itself, looking pitiably like a child falling to its knees. “Thou hast been wrongly wakened,” I said again. “Isthano Gosaran, let the darkness take thee."

I thought a thin keening came from it, barely audible against the pattering of the fine rain. “Iäna, call his name, tell him what he must do, as we did.”

Iäna gaped at me, then pulled himself together. He spoke in the warm, persuasive voice he had used on his child choristers: “Isthano Gosaran, it is time for thee to sleep. Rest again, child.”

The ghoul sagged to the ground and seemed to curl up. “Yes, michen, that’s it,” I said. “Go to thy peaceful sleep, Isthano Gosaran. Let the darkness take thee.”

It lost all form and became a small, ruinous pile of waste, the clean rain washing the earth and blood into the ground beneath it.

Iäna looked up and met my eyes. He looked awed and not a little disturbed.

“That,” I said “is how one quiets a ghoul.”

“Was I really any help?”

I blinked. Rain was running into my eyes, the wet tendrils of my curls making things worse. “Yes, of course. Striking it with the branch distracted it and gave me time to find its name. Calling its proper name always helps, whoever does it, and your kind words were effective too, I think. I have not encountered a child ghoul before. How terrible, and how pitiful.”

“Now what?”

“We need to re-bury the remains.”

Iäna looked at the pitiable, disgusting heap, dimly visible in the rainy gloom, and winced. Then, to the relief of both of us, we heard running footsteps.

A sturdy half-goblin man vaulted the wall nearby, a shovel over one shoulder, and skidded to a halt before us. His partner followed more cautiously, setting down his own shovel and a lighted lantern, then reached back across the wall to help a prelate over as well.

“Well, othala?” asked the first sexton, for so he seemed to be.

“We have sent the ghoul to its rest,” I said. “It was from the grave of a boy, Isthano Gosaran. Why was not his temporary marker replaced with a proper monument? The wood of the marker was overgrown with fungus, the name unreadable.”

The sexton flinched, and the approaching prelate put a palm over his mouth for a moment. He seemed of mixed parentage, although it was hard to tell in the faint light and rain. “May the goddesses be merciful,” he said, at last. “You are Othala Celehar?”

“Yes, and my companion is Iäna Pel-Thenhior, director of the Vermillion Opera. We were hurrying from the Chalk Hill Park to the East Ulchedoree ostro, hoping to miss the rain, when we encountered the terrified children who fetched you.”

“We are Severa Boderet, and we were given charge of the ulimiere of Ulchedoree less than a year ago. We are afraid that Othala Saminar, who previously had it as his charge, died suddenly, of a thunderclap coronary, and there is some question as to whether he was in his right wits for the last few months of his tenure.”

The second sexton was looking about at the weedy graves with some disgust. He said to his fellow, “Overad, how did you miss this?”

Overad started to make a rude gesture but interrupted it to form a warding against evil instead. “Regardless, we have a burial to perform here and now, Karubar.”

They quickly and neatly dug a fresh grave and pushed the sad remains of the boy into it, then filled it with the earth that was rapidly becoming mud. I came forward before Othala Boderet gathered himself to do so and recited the prayers of rest. Karubar produced a fresh temporary marker and a fat grease pencil. He offered it to me, and I wrote Isthano’s name on it in clear, careful letters, then settled it at one end of the new resting place.

Othala Boderet was tugging at his soaked coat. “We would welcome you to the ulimiere to dry off a bit, merrai, and have some tea. We would also be glad to summon a cab to take you wherever you wish to go.”

“We thank you,” said Iäna, before I could object.

Karubar picked up the lantern, leaving Overad to take both shovels, and led the way to the proper gate between cemetery and ulimiere. The prelate followed his sextons, and we brought up the rear of the little procession.

“I have a suggestion about our eventual destination,” said Iäna.

“Why am I not surprised? Where should we go?”

“To Torivontaram. Mama would get us dried off and feed us hot soup. If we are lucky, it would be one of her specialties, curried pumpkin porridge, which she was talking of adding to the menu for the season. You will like it.”

I started to protest, quite automatically, and then wondered why. I was cold and wet and perhaps even a bit hungry. Certainly I would get no better invitation this night, especially not soaked to the skin. “Well then, I would be glad to once again accept your family’s hospitality,” I said, knowing I sounded stiff and overly formal.

Iäna smiled at me, a white flash of teeth in the darkness, and squeezed my chill hand in his warm one.

As we approached the back door of the ulimiere, it flew open. A young prelate stood there, her pale face anxious. Othala Boderet nodded to her. “As you see, we have survived, Ducharo. But we are all wet and cold. Put on the kettle and make some tea for Othala Celehar and his companion. I must change.”

He bustled off, leaving the rest of the burial party dripping in the hallway. Karubar and Overad gave each other amused looks. The young prelate flushed and wrung her hands. “Oh dear, of course you two cannot change!”

“I’ll go fetch a cab,” said Overad.

“And I’ll get them some towels and blankets,” put in Karubar. “Take care of the tea, young othala.”

The young woman dithered a moment, then turned and almost ran down the hallway, disappearing into a doorway at the end.

Karubar shook his head. “She never introduced herself, nor did Broderet. That’s Othala Ducharo Peredar. She’s only been here ten days, but still!”

“Other people’s children, our mama would say,” said Iäna. “Overad, shouldn’t you have an overcoat?”

Overad, who had opened the door again, grinned back over his shoulder. “Thank you for your concern, Mer Pel-Thenhior, but I can’t get any more wet, can I?”

He slipped out. Karubar gestured us to follow him. “You may as well stand on the hearth in the parlor whilst I fetch the towels for you. A few drips won’t do it any harm.”

The parlor was warm and stuffy, with worn but comfortable-looking old-fashioned furniture upholstered in grey plush with a pattern of black vine leaves. The front door was at the far side of the room, with a coat rack and a small barrel for umbrellas. A bar-shaped gas fixture burned in the open fireplace, imitating the logs that would have heated the place when the building was new. We stood on the stone hearth as Karubar left on his errand, and I found myself shuddering with cold despite the warmth of the room. Iäna frowned, concerned, and wrapped an arm around me. He was so wet himself that it didn’t warm me at all.

Karubar came back with a mighty armload of towels and a canvas drop-cloth, which he spread over the settee. He handed us each a large towel and put the rest on the settee. “Get yourselves settled as well as you can. Othala Peredar should bring the tea in a moment: the kettle was a-boil as I walked by. I’m off to change myself.”

“What of Othala Boderet?” I asked.

The sexton grinned. “I daresay he’ll make an appearance at some point. But he did come to the graveside, so there’s that.”

Iäna had draped his towel around his shoulders. He took mine as soon as Karubar left and gently wrapped it around my head, then twisted it to press the water out of my hair. Then he undid the towel and started rubbing my back with it. I stood still, astonished and embarrassed. “What about yourself?” I said, my voice coming out in little huffs from the vigor of his actions.

“I’m not the one who was shuddering with cold just now,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “You needn’t fear for propriety, my dear Celehar. I’ll leave the rest to you.” He dropped the soaked towel on the hearthstone and fetched another dry one for me, then set about toweling himself off.

Othala Peredar appeared with a large tea tray while we were still in the middle of this process. “Oh dear,” she said, her cheeks once more flushed a deep rose. She set the tray on a table and fled out into the hall. Her voice floated back to us: “We will return shortly!”

Iäna snorted a stifled chuckle. “I imagine she is going to have difficulties laying out dead men,” he commented.

“One never knows,” I said. “But if I had to guess, she would be able to compose herself as long as no one was present but herself and the dead.”

In fact it was Karubar, in dry clothing and with hair tied hastily into a single bun, who arrived back first, just as we were deciding that we were as dry as toweling could accomplish. He carried two thick woolen blankets, heavily scented with herbs against moths, in which he encouraged us to wrap ourselves before sitting down on the settee. “Wool is warm even when damp,” he said. “I’ll tell the young othala that it’s safe to come pour out the tea.”

He gathered the wet towels into a bundle and departed. Othala Peredar returned, looking somewhat more composed, and poured out the cups of tea. It was an almost flavorless isveren, served on its own. It was fortunate that it was very hot, for it had nothing else to recommend it. We both thanked her, and then conversation languished. I was about to start quizzing her on what she knew about quieting ghouls, which would seem the logical topic to discuss, when all three of us were saved by the arrival of Overad, who came in the front door.

“Cab’s outside,” he said. “Othala Peredar?”

She looked at him blankly for a moment. He raised one hand, cupped, and rubbed his thumb back and forth across the pads of the other fingers: money. “Oh,” she said, getting to her feet. She went to a desk in the corner near the hall door and unlocked a compartment. Overad joined her and nodded as she counted coins into his hand.

“That should cover it,” he said. “Come along, othala, mer.”

Iäna and I looked at each other and then rose as one, leaving the blankets on the canvas-covered settee. Othala Peredar turned to watch us leave. “Good evening, othala,” said Iäna.

“Please give our regards to Othala Boderet, and tell him that we regret not being able to thank him in person,” I added.

Overad saw us to the horse-drawn cab, a well-kept vehicle from what we could see in the flare of the gas lamp over the ulimere’s front door, and paid the driver. “Good night, Othala Celehar, Mer Pel-Thenhior,” said Overad. “Take care of yourselves.”

It occurred to me that he was still wet to the skin. “Yourself as well, Mer Overad,” I said.

“Where to?” asked the cabdriver.

“The teahouse Torivontaram,” said Iäna, and explained how to find it.

The seats of the cab were leather, worn but well-polished, so that I had no concern for the effects of our damp clothing. There also seemed to be a brass foot-heater. “This cab is more comfortable than that parlor,” murmured Iäna. He put one arm about my shoulders, and I could not find it in me to object.

We drove for half an hour to the teahouse. The rain had slackened somewhat by the time we arrived. The cabdriver hopped down and opened the door nearest the entrance to Torivontaram, then watched us carefully as we got out. He seemed ready to help if needed, but Iäna’s long legs made nothing of the step to the ground, and he handed me down himself. “Thank you, mer,” he said to the driver, pressing a few more coins into the fellow’s hand.

When we arrived at the top of the stairs into the main room of Torivontaram, Nebeno Pel-Thenhior hurried to greet us, then stopped abruptly, surveying our damp clothing. “Iäna, Othala Celehar, what have you been doing?” she exclaimed.

“We went for a walk but encountered a ghoul at the end of it,” said Iäna, carelessly, as though he was saying that we’d stopped for a cup of tea (which we had, in fact).

“Good goddesses preserve us!” his mother exclaimed. “Othala, we presume you made short work of it.”

“Indeed,” I answered. “It was rather sad, actually: not a very powerful revenant. Disconcerting, of course, and it badly frightened some children who saw it.”

“Well! Perhaps you can tell us the full tale once you’ve eaten. We have some excellent tea for you, and also some hot soup. But you must change: you will catch your deaths sitting about in those wet clothes. Iäna, do you take him up to your old room. There should be some things you both can wear while yours dry.”

I was rather dubious about this suggestion: Iäna was much larger than I. But he chuckled. “Of course, Mama. Come along, othala.”

Iäna opened a door on the far side of the room, disclosing a narrow stairway going farther up. He led me to the next floor, where there were several doors opening off the small landing, visible by the light of a gas sconce. He opened the door that seemed to be on the back wall of the building and lit the lamp within.

It was a small room, with a single bed, a desk, a narrow hanging wardrobe and a chest of drawers. Everything was spotless and smelled of recent cleaning. Iäna started going through the drawers and the wardrobe. He put an old but well-mended suit, a shirt, stockings, and small clothes on the bed. Then he took out another suit, smaller, and held it up for my perusal. “I believe I last wore this when I was fifteen,” he said.

It looked roughly the right length, although it would be large in the waist and shoulders for me. It was a deep, cool brown: not a good color for me, but somber enough that I did not object to it just for the evening. “It looks as though it will fit,” I said.

He put it on the desk chair and rummaged around until he found the rest of the necessary clothing, all of it apparently left from his youth. “We’ll both have to make do with house slippers,” he said. “We took the shoes that still fit when we moved out on our own.”

“We are surprised Merrem Pel-Thenhior still has the clothes,” I said.

Iäna smiled warmly. “Mama always helps those in need in the community,” he said. “These things have no doubt been worn by others and then returned, clean and mended, when the borrowers regained some prosperity.” He started stripping off his wet clothing, completely unselfconscious.

Of course, I thought. As part of an opera company in his youth, he no doubt shared changing rooms with other members of the company. And thou, Thara, hast shared dormitories and apartments with other boys and men in thy youth, as well. I started to change, although I could not help turning my back to him.

It did not matter. I was still conscious of his large, healthy, and male presence baring that warm, dark skin so near to mine. I put on the worn, soft linen small clothes, putting against my skin the cloth that had been against his, and drawing on the breeches, the shirt, the waistcoat, the jacket: all of them his. It did not matter that others had worn them in the interim, and that they had been washed.

He turned around, fully dressed, and rummaged in a wooden box on the top of the chest of drawers. He passed me a comb and a length of brown ribbon and gestured to a small mirror on the wall. I hastened to undo, comb out and re-braid my own damp hair into a respectable prelate’s plait. Iäna’s own Barizheise braids were mostly intact, although still quite wet. “We‘ll not bother with our own for now,” he said,”Although we are sure Mama will give us a look. You know the one, we imagine.”

In my case, it had been my grandmother, but I knew what he meant, and I smiled and nodded as I turned back to give him back the comb.

He was watching me, had been watching me while I did my hair. His golden eyes were warm.

I dropped my own ordinary eyes, and the moment passed. Iäna went to gather our damp clothing and led the way downstairs again.

One of Nebeno’s servers took the damp bundle from him as we came out into Torivontaram’s main room again. The lady herself greeted us with a smile and led us back to one of the less public tables. Another server arrived with tea, some spiced blend that seemed to have a base of golden orchor. Nebeno herself filled our cups. “Now,” she said. “We have the pumpkin porridge that Iäna likes so well in this season. Also a steamed fish with onions and black mushrooms, and greens with garlic. And then sweet dumplings filled with macerated dried fruits, and little oranges to finish the meal. Does that sound right, my son?”

Iäna clasped his hands over his heart and smiled at her. “That sounds perfect, Mama.”

None of the foods were anything I had ever had before, but every dish was excellent. I was surprised to find myself hungry, and I ate enough that even Nebeno didn’t feel the need to urge me to take more. She brought the last course of fruit dumplings and oranges herself, and sat with us to eat them.

.”Now,” she said. “The rain still falls, and your clothing is yet damp. We must insist that you stay the night.”

I started to object, and Iäna pressed my hand beneath the table. “Of course, Mama,” he said.

I sleep-walked through the rest of the evening, telling Nebeno the story of the child-ghoul and listening to Iäna explain the problem of the lead in The Little Green Dove. At last Nebeno said that she needed to supervise the clean-up and suggested that we go to bed.

Iäna led me upstairs to the same small room, with its single bed. As soon as he had closed the door behind us, I rounded on him.

“Mer Pel-Thenhior, I have done nothing to suggest that we should share a bed!” I knew that I was flushing, not unlike the young prelate earlier this evening.

He leaned against the door and crossed his arms. His face was patient. “Celehar, we have never forced anyone to do aught they did not want in these matters, nor even argued until they gave us our will. We are becoming very fond of you, and we would guess you know it. But there is a trundle bed, which we would be glad to take whilst you sleep in the bed itself. You may note, however, that the room is chilly and getting colder, despite the kitchen chimney inside the wall, and we have been told that we give off heat like a stove. You might be glad of it.”

Iäna produced two nightshirts, one larger and one smaller, both worn very soft, and started undressing for bed.

A dozen arguments ran through my mind, but the truth was that faced with the rain and wind I could hear through the small, curtained window, and with the comfortable room before me, I found I had no strength to object further. I surrendered and changed myself into the nightshirt, then climbed into the little bed. It had linen sheets, wool blankets, and a soft quilt stuffed with feathers. The pillows were old and rather flat, but it hardly mattered.

Iäna stooped by the bed and pulled out the trundle. It was all made up with its own blankets, quilt, and pillows. He turned the gaslight down to its lowest setting, then got under the covers himself.

Unfortunately, he was correct that the room was getting colder. Soon I became chilled, and I shivered, so that my teeth chattered. I also became aware that Iäna was awake in the lower bed beside mine. Perhaps my chattering teeth had awakened him, or perhaps he had never been asleep at all.

“Celehar? Might we warm you? If not, we fear that your chattering teeth and your shuddering will keep us awake.”

His voice was soft and deep, blanketing me with promised comfort. At last I said “It is not as though we have never shared a bed with a fellow-traveller on our journeys.”

I heard him push back the bedding and rise. He was a large, dark shape in the dimness, and I thought I could feel his warmth already. I folded back the blankets, and he slipped into bed beside me.

“Wilt turn on thy side? It is not a large bed,” he said, then stopped and sighed. “I am sorry if I am being over-familiar, but… .”

“No, th’art only being sensible,” I said. “It seems over-nice to worry about it just now. And thou art correct about…the fondness.” I curled on my side, my back to him.

He curled around me, one arm over me. He did not press; he was giving me just that bit of space. Already I was feeling warm and very sleepy, and it was not so difficult to ignore my body’s other feelings. “Thank thee, Iäna.”

“Sleep well, Thara,” he replied. I could feel the vibration of his deep voice through my body, a sensation that spoke of security and kindness. These things followed me into sleep, and I did not dream.