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Halfrid?”
    “Ask Tyron about magic business.” And before he could ask more questions, she lifted her voice. “I invite you all to a masquerade ball, to be held in the duke’s honor, four days hence.”
    As whispers ran through the younger courtiers—for there had been no elaborate balls the year before—Hawk smiled down into her eyes. “A masquerade, eh?”
    She immediately recalled a masquerade ball what seemed a thousand years ago, when he’d been plotting with her own relatives. Judging by that sardonic smile, he was remembering it as well.
    “Shall I take that as a challenge?” he added. He had long dimples in his lean cheeks when he smiled that way. “What, dare I ask, ought I to mask myself as?”
    “What else?” she retorted, lightly. Ever so lightly, and with the same smile: feint, disengage, lunge. “As a hound.”

Four
    The sunset bells were just ringing when Wren transferred to Hroth Falls. The Destination tiles at her feet shimmered unpleasantly as she fought against the dizziness that transfers always caused.
    She closed her eyes, breathed deeply—
    And was startled by a sharp female voice, “Who are you?”
    “Mistress Falin?” Wren opened her eyes, rubbing them even though she knew it wouldn’t clear the haze any faster. “Tyron sent me. I know I’m not dressed in my student tunic, but I can explain. My name is Wren.”
    The room was unlit. Wren squinted at the mage but all she saw were shadows shifting in the face before her. She knuckled her eyes again, feeling a spark of alarm.
    The alarm vanished when Mistress Falin spoke, this time in a cheerful, friendly voice.
    “I am so sorry, hoo hoo! Tyron, woo hoo! Wren! From Cantirmoor Magic School, of course, hee hee! Well, I confess you startled me,” and again the mage giggled. “I don’t expect anyone this late, you see.”
    Wren’s face burned. “Sunset bells haven’t rung in Cantirmoor yet,” she hastened to say. “We were in a hurry. Didn’t know it was so late—”
    “Never mind, never mind, hee hee!” Mistress Falin giggled again. “Come inside, do. No mage tunic! Here’s a mystery! Tell me all the Magic School news, and the Cantirmoor news as well, hee hoo!”
    Wren followed the mage into a room lit by glowglobes. “I don’t want to take up your time. I really only transferred here to save myself a lot of walking. I can set out on the road tonight. Weather seems to be fine, and I have plenty to eat.” She hefted her knapsack.
    Mistress Falin was tall and thin in her scribe’s green gown, with wide-set eyes much the same color as Wren’s own, and a big grin. She tittered again, as though Wren had been joking, and clapped her hands. “Set out at night! Ha ha! Oh, how Halfrid would scorch my ears if I were to let you go out, and us expecting rain before morning!” Another titter, and Mistress Falin added, “For that matter, I’d scorch my own ears, were I to let so famous a student go without hearing your tales! Here. You just sit down, nice and snug in my reading chair, and I’ll whisk to the back and ask Cook to stretch supper for two.” On a gale of giggles Mistress Falin departed.
    Wren sighed as the sound died away in the back of the house. She set her knapsack down and moved to the window. The little square panes opened onto the cobble-stoned street that she remembered from her very first adventure. How long ago that seemed!
    Her gaze traveled over the ironwork banisters and the new sign depicting a book. Below that, beautifully lettered, Copyist — illuminations . Wren’s gaze traveled past the window boxes with their nodding blossoms, all red and orange and yellow, and up the street. Warm golden glows slanted down from windows as people lit lamps; softer bluish white glows revealed windows behind which glowglobes had been clapped on.
    Wren leaned out and sniffed. Yes. The slow breeze, still warm, smelled of wet soil: rain was coming.
    A sudden giggle behind Wren made her jump. “Supper on the