And where is he? Out dangling after Mistress Hartshorn's daughter, who is far too knowing for her tender years. She's a distraction to him, that Svanja, and even her own mother says that she would be better at home, tending to work and learning her own trade."

She nattered on in a voice of mixed annoyance and amusement. The level of her concern astonished me. I felt a twinge of jealousy: was not Hap my boy, for me to worry about? As she spoke, she set a cup at my elbow, poured tea for both of us, and resumed her chair and knitting. When she was settled, she glanced over at me and our eyes met for the first time since I had knocked. She started, and then leaned closer, peering at me.

“Oh, Tom!” she exclaimed in a voice of deep sympathy. She leaned toward me, studying my face. “Poor man, what's happened to you?”

Empty as a hollow log when the mice are eaten.

“My wolf died.”

It shocked me that I spoke the truth so bluntly. Jinna was silent, staring at me. I knew she could not understand. I did not expect her to understand. But then, as her helpless silence lengthened, I felt very much as if she might understand, for she offered no useless words. Abruptly, she dropped her knitting in her lap and leaned across to put her hand on my forearm.

“Will you be all right?” she asked me. It was not an empty question; she genuinely listened for my reply.

“In time,” I told her, and for the first time, I admitted that was true. As disloyal as the thought felt, I knew that as time passed, I would be myself again. And in that moment, I felt for the first time the sensation that Black Rolf had tried to describe to me. The wolfish part of my soul stirred, and, Yes, you will be yourself again, and that is as it should be, I heard near as clearly as if Nighteyes had truly shared the thought with me. Like remembering, but more so, Rolf had told me. I sat very still, savoring the sensation. Then it passed, and a shiver ran over me.

“Drink your tea, you're taking a chill,” Jinna advised me, and leaned down to toss another piece of wood on the fire.

I did as she suggested. As I set the cup down, I glanced up at the charm over the mantel. The changeable light from the flames gilded and then hid the beads. Hospitality. The tea was warm and sweet and soothing, the cat purred on my lap, and a woman looked at me fondly. Was it just the wall charm's effect on me? If it was, I didn't care. Something in me eased another notch. Petting the cat makes you feel better, Fennel asserted smugly.

“The boy's heart will be broken when he hears. He knew the wolf would go after you, you know. When the wolf disappeared I was worried, but when he didn't come back, Hap told me, never fear, he's gone off to follow Tom. Oh, I dread your telling him.” Abruptly, she reined her flow of words. Then she stoutly declared, “But in time, like you, he will recover. Oh, he should be home by now,” she worried, and then, “What will you do about him?”

I thought of myself, so many years ago, and of Verity, and even of young Dutiful. I thought of all the ways that duty had shaped us and bound us and held back our hearts. Truly, the boy should be home by now, getting sleep the better to serve his master on the morrow. He was an apprentice yet, and his prospects were not yet settled. He had no business showing an interest in a girl. I could take a firm hand with him and remind him of his duty. He would listen to me. But Hap was not the son of a king, nor even a royal bastard. Hap could be free. I leaned back in my chair. It rocked and I absently stroked the cat. “Nothing,” I said after a moment. “I think I'll do nothing. I think I'll let him be a boy. I think I'll let him fall in love with a girl, and stay out later than he should, and have a pounding headache tomorrow when his master chides him for being late.” I turned to look at her. The firelight danced over her kindly face. “I think I'll let the boy be a boy for a time.”

“Do you think that's wise?” she asked, but she smiled as she said it.

“No.” I shook my head slowly. “I think it's foolish and wonderful.”

“Ah. Well. Will you stay and have another cup of tea, then? Or must you hurry back to the keep and your own duties?”

“I have no duties tonight. I won't be missed.”

“Well, then.” She poured another cup of tea for me with an alacrity that was flattering. “You'll stay a while here. Where you have been missed.” She sipped from her cup, smiling at me over the rim of it.

Fennel drew breath and began a deep, rumbling purr.

EPILOGUE

There was a time when thought that my life's significant work would be to write a history of the Six Duchies. I made a start on it any number of times, but always seemed to slide sideways from that grand tale into a recounting of the days and details of my own small life. The more I studied the accounts of others, both written and told, the more it seemed to me that we attempt such histories not to preserve knowledge, but to fix the past in a settled way. Like a flower pressed flat and dried, we try to hold it still and say, this is exactly how it was the day I first saw it. But like the flower, the past cannot be trapped that way. It loses its fragrance and its vitality, its fragility becomes brittleness and its colors fade. And when next you look on the flower, you know that it is not at all what you sought to capture, that that moment has fled forever. wrote my histories and observations. captured my thoughts and ideas and memories in words on vellum and paper. So much I stored, and thought it was mine. believed that by fixing it down in words, I could force sense from all that had happened, that effect would follow cause, and the reason for each event come clear to me. Perhaps I sought to justify myself, not just all I had done, but who had become. For years, I wrote faithfully nearly every evening, carefully explaining my world and my life to myself. I put my scrolls on a shelf, trusting that I had captured the meaning of my days.