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call tiny puffs of wind that aligned the aircraft with the landing site. The landing was a little rougher than usual—as she neared the ground her mind kept straying to other matters—but as an experienced pilot she allowed the wicker gondola to bump along the grass a short distance, minimising the impact, and gradually coming to a halt. The ground crew held down the basket as soon as it had stopped, and ensured it was properly anchored. With the swiftness born of much practice they spread out a tarpaulin to protect the aircraft from dirt and damage. Asr ă thiel opened the parachute valve to its fullest extent, then gracefully vaulted out of the basket. Warm gases fled out from the apex of the envelope into the atmosphere, whereupon the crew seized hold of a cord fastened to the top of the balloon and hauled the envelope over onto the tarpaulin. Expertly they began to squeeze out the remaining air. They would flatten out the flower of silk-light linen before cramming it into the storage bag.
    After leaving the aircraft the damsel greeted her landlady and household staff with fondness. They followed as she made her way indoors, tugging off her rain hood as she walked, and shaking out her long black tresses. Her companions were accustomed to her striking looks, but a stranger would have marvelled. So blue were her eyes, and so translucent her skin, that her lids seemed brushed with powdered sky, like the two wings of a bluebird.
    Bemusement clouded those remarkable eyes. No explanation for the spate of outlandish butchery at Silverton had been found. The outbreak had spread to the surrounding countryside as far south as the Harrowgate Fells and the outskirts of Paper Mill, then inexplicably ceased. From time to time a few nebulae of preternatural mists had continued to emerge, here and there, still as unaccountable as ever. King Warwick’s wardens remained vigilant, but for now it seemed there was nothing more that Asr ă thiel, official weathermage to King’s Winterbourne, could do; she reverted, instead, to her customary duties.
    After dinner the weathermage retired somewhat discontentedly to her favourite haven, the upstairs parlour, where low-burning embers in the grate warmed the room against the cool airs of late Spring. She did not suffer from the cold—indeed she was wearing a light gown of ruched linen—however, the housemaid who tended the fireplaces was ignorant of her invulnerability, or incapable of comprehending it, or a slave to habit. Instead of opening a book Asr ă thiel reclined upon a buttoned divan, resting the back of her head on an embroidered cushion and staring pensively at the ceiling, where reflected firelight played amidst the mouldings of beaten copper.
    For a long while all was quiet save for the low murmur of flames. Then, an interruption.
    ‘That prince, so lordly,’ sneered the voice of Asr ă thiel’s occasional visitor, the urisk. ‘You would make a good queen for him. No doubt you dream of him this instant, believing you are in love with him.’
    It was remarkable how silently the wight could move, despite his horny hooves. Asr ă thiel was by now accustomed to his unheralded appearances and inflammatory statements. Rather than growing indignant at his baiting she replied with studied offhandedness, ‘No doubt.’
    The little ragged wight, resembling a man from the waist upwards, but with goatlike legs, was seated cross-legged, precariously, atop a cabinet of mahogany that stood against a wall. Regarding her with a cynical air he said, ‘I daresay you are consumed by what you believe to be true love. Humankind like best to deceive themselves, and the substances that flow through their brains collude with them in this pastime.’
    ‘Of course our brains conspire,’ Asr ă thiel retorted, fully rousing herself from her reverie to engage in the usual verbal sparring. She levered herself to sit upright. ‘Their primary purpose is to ensure we continue to survive and procreate. All