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Perhaps, like a trip to a fairy-hill, what they had shared the night before had been something magical, something destined to fade as quickly from memory as an icicle melting in the sun. No. I won't let it fade. I'll remember it always . .. even if she doesn't. He stole a glance at Miriamele. Most of her face was hidden by the hood, but he could see her nose and part of her cheek and her sharp chin. She looked almost Silha-like, he thought, graceful and beautiful, yet not quite knowable. What was going on in her head? How could she cling to him as she had, then say nothing about it afterward, until he wondered if he had dreamed the whole thing or was going mad? Surely she had returned that kiss as eagerly as he had given it? Little as he knew of women and kissing, he could not believe that the way she had responded meant nothing. Why don't I just ask her? I'll go mad if I don't find out. But what if she laughs at me, or gets angry—or doesn't remember? The idea that Miriamele might have no strong emotions corresponding to the feelings that churned within him was chilling. His resolve to make her talk abruptly vanished. He would think about it more. But I want to kiss her again. He sighed. The sound was lost in the hissing tumult of the rain. The River Road was muddy and almost entirely empty; as Simon had predicted, they passed fewer than a dozen other travelers all day. Only one man bothered to do more than nod, a short, bandy-legged fellow whose knob-kneed horse pulled a tented wagon full of tinker's goods. Hoping for information about what might lie ahead, Simon took courage at his pleasant greeting and asked the man to stop. The tinker stood in the downpour, apparently glad for someone to talk to, and told them that there was a way station ahead that they should reach not long after sundown. He said he was on his way out from Falshire, and described that city as quiet and the business he had done there as poor. After quietly making sure that Miriamele approved, Simon invited the man to come join them beneath a stand of pines that kept out most of the rain. They handed him the wineskin, and while their new acquaintance took a few healthy swallows, Simon repeated his story of being an itinerant chandler. "Thank you kindly." The tinker handed back the wineskin. "Cuts the chill a bit, that does." He nodded. "You'll be hoping to do some trade for Saint Tunath's and Aedonmansa, then. Good luck to you. But if you'll pardon advice not asked for, I think you'd best go no farther west than Falshire." Simon and Miriamele locked eyes briefly before turning back to the traveler. "Why is that?

" asked Simon. "People just say it's bad there." The man's grin seemed forced. "You know the sort of tales. Bandits, the like. Some talk of odd happenings in the hills." He shrugged. Simon pressed him for details, but the man did not seem inclined to elaborate. Simon had never heard of a traveling tinker who would not happily finish a proffered wineskin while regaling his listeners with tales of his journeying; whether this man was an exception to the rule, or whether there was something that had disturbed him enough to keep him quiet, Simon could not tell. He seemed a reasonable sort. "We're looking for nothing but a roof over our heads and a few timings worth of work here and there," said Simon. The tinker cocked an eyebrow at the sword on Simon's belt and the metal hauberk protruding beyond his sleeves. "You're tolerable well-armed for candle-making, sirrah," he said gently. "But I suppose that shows what the roads are like these days." He nodded with a sort of careful approval, as if to suggest that whatever he thought of a chandler wearing the gear of a knight—albeit a tattered knight who had seen better times—he saw no reason to ask further questions. Simon, catching the implicit message that he was expected to adopt the same courteous disinterest, offered the tinker a handclasp as they all walked back to the road. "Anything you need?" the man asked as he once more took the bridle of his horse, which had been standing patiently in the rain. "I get a few things in trade from them as has not a cintis piece to pay—some vegetables, little bits of metal clutter ... shoeing-nails, the like." Simon said that they had everything they needed until they reached Falshire: he was quite sure that the things they most needed would not be in the back of a rain-soaked wagon. But Miriamele asked to see the vegetables, and picked out a few spindly carrots and four brown onions, giving the tinker a coin in return. Afterward they waved him farewell as he took his horse and went squelching away east along the muddy road. As the gray afternoon wore away, the rain continued to spatter down. Simon was growing tired of it pounding on his head. Wish I'd remembered to bring my battle-helm, he thought.

But that'd probably be like sitting under a bucket and having someone throw stones at you—rattle, rattle, rattle till you go mad. To entertain Miriamele, he tried to sing a song called "Badulf and the Straying Heifer" that Shem Horsegroom had taught him, which had a rainstorm in it and seemed appropriate, but most of the words had slipped his memory, and when he sang the parts he remembered, the wind flung rain down his gullet until he thought he would strangle. He abandoned the experiment at last and they continued in silence. The sun which had been invisible all day at last sank beneath the rim of the world, leaving behind a deeper darkness. They rode on as the rain turned even colder, until their teeth were chattering and their hands grew numb on the reins. Simon had begun to doubt that the tinker had spoken truly when at last they found the way station. It was only a shed, four walls and a roof, with a smoke hole and a circle of stones dug into the floor for a fireplace. There was a covered spot outside at the back to tie the horses, but Simon, after unsaddling them, tethered them in a copse nearby where they would be almost as dry, and would be able to crop at the thin grass.

The last inhabitant of the station—Simon guessed it was the tinker himself, who had seemed a decent and conscientious fellow—had brought in fresh wood before leaving. It had to be new-gathered, because it was still wet and proved difficult to light: Simon had to restart it three times after the smoldering tinder fizzled out against the damp branches. He and the princess made themselves a stew with some carrots and one of the onions and a bit of flour and dried beef from Miriamele's stores. "Hot food," proclaimed Simon, sucking his fingers, "is a wonderful thing." He held the bowl up and licked the last drops of gravy from the bottom. "You're getting stew on your beard," Miriamele said sternly. Simon pushed open the door of the way station, then leaned out and let his cupped palms fill with rainwater. He drank some and used the rest to rub the grease from his whiskers. "Better?" "I suppose." Miriamele began arranging her bedroll. Simon got up, patting his stomach contentedly. He went and dragged his own bedroll loose from the saddle, then came back and laid it out close to Miriamele's. She stared at it silently for a moment; then, without looking up, pulled hers around the fire, putting several cubits of straw-matted floor between them. Simon pursed his lips. "Should we keep watch?" he said at last. "There's no bar on the door." "That would be wise. Who first?" "Me. I have a lot to think about." His tone finally made Miriamele look up. She eyed him warily, as though he might do something sudden and frightening. "Very well. Wake me when you get tired." "I'm tired now. But so are you. Sleep. I'll get you up after you've had a little time to rest." Miriamele settled back without protest, wrapping her cloak tightly about her before she closed her eyes. The way station was silent but for the patter of rain on the roof. Simon sat motionless for a long time, watching the flickering firelight play across her pale, composed features. Sometime in the earliest hours after midnight, Simon caught himself nodding. He sat up, shaking his head, and listened. The rain had stopped, but water was still dripping from the way station roof and drizzling on the ground outside. He crawled over to wake Miriamele, but paused by the bedroll to look at her in the red light of the dying embers. She had twisted in her sleep, dislodging the cloak she used as a blanket, and her shirt had pulled loose from the top of the men's breeches she wore, exposing a measure of white skin along her side and the shadowed curve of her lowest ribs. Simon felt his heart turn over in his chest. He longed to touch her. His hand, seemingly of its own volition, stole out; his fingers, gentle as butterflies, lit upon her skin. It was cool and smooth. He could feel goosebumps rise beneath his touch. Miriamele made a groggy noise of irritation and brushed at him, flicking as though the butterflies had become less pleasant insects a-crawling. Simon quickly withdrew his hand. He sat for a moment trying to catch his breath, feeling like a thief who had been nearly surprised in his crime.