It was strange to feel a sudden sense of loss and pain for a person whose face I couldn’t remember. But it was there, a knot—no, a suddenly audible scream—inside of me.

The pain felt fresh and raw, like a bruise before it went blue. I’d lost Jen. Somehow, I’d lost her.

I stumbled, putting one hand on the nearby wooden pillar. I put the other to my head. Jen. Hot damn . . . this had been her dream. This place, this was what I had left of her.

Isn’t it incredible? her voice drifted into my mind. Generations upon generations—thousands upon thousands of years’ worth—of people have lived, but they’re all the same as us. Teleport someone from Ancient Egypt to the modern era, and they’d be indistinguishable. Same passions. Same cleverness. Same biases, if about different things.

You’ll see. Someday, when we can afford it, you’ll see . . .

I didn’t remember much more than that at the moment. Just some words, a voice. And the pain. Too personal to joke about. Too real to belong to me.

Sefawynn stepped closer, watching me with suspicion. Yeah, this looked like a classic weakness feint, and she likely worried I’d make a play for the knife. Instead, I forced out a wan smile.

“Sorry,” I said. “Hanging upside down did not help this headache. Did you have to swing so hard?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Did you roll your eyes at me?” I demanded.

“Oh look,” she said, doing it again. “Cobwebs near the ceiling.”

“You’re lucky you caught me by surprise,” I told her. “I can be very dangerous in a fight.”

“Careful,” she said. “The spiders in the eaves look for empty, unused spots to build their webs. Keep talking, and they’ll investigate the vacuous cavern between your ears, aelv.” She gave me a flat stare.

I folded my arms. “What’s the plan?”

“We’ll tell the lord I used your ancient name to bind you. If he asks, tell him the craeft has forced you to do my bidding, and I am banishing you.”

“Crayft,” I said. “Got it.”

“Craeft,” she said.

“Crayft.”

“Your accent . . .” she said with a shake of her head. “You’re Waelish, aren’t you?”

“Welsh?” I said, figuring that one out. “Uh, yeah. Totally. And this place is . . .”

“Weswara,” she said. “Home of the Weswarans? You can’t think I’ll believe you don’t know that.”

Weswara? My British history wasn’t the greatest, granted, but . . . shouldn’t I have heard of this place?

“Come along then,” she said. “We’d best talk to Lord Ealstan before your friends end up saying something that ruins our plan.”

I followed as she picked up a lamp—one of those old-school ones that look like a gravy boat—and blew out the others. We’d been in a side chamber of the meeting hall, pretty close to where I’d been dropped.

We entered the main courtyard, which was empty for the moment—though candles still illuminated the bowls of berries and milk in front of the lord’s manor. I had to guess this was a folk superstition. A way to appease these “landswights” I’d heard people mention.

“So,” I said, “you’re a poet. Who performs boasts and ballads? A . . . skop? Is that the term?”

“No need to act so amazed,” she said, eyes forward as we walked to the front of the manor, where the young tower guard now stood at the door with axe and shield.

“Uh, hey,” he said to her. “Um . . . I’ll just see . . . if you can go in?”

She nodded. I glanced over my shoulder, extra wary. Face-board me once, shame on you. Face-board me twice, and . . .

Wait.

The candles were still there, as were the dishes. But their contents were gone.

Sefawynn noticed my alarm, because she spun, hand going to her pocket. “What?” she hissed.

“The berries and milk,” I said, pointing. “They’ve vanished.”

“Unsurprising,” she said, relaxing. “The wights have been staying near you. If you’re nice, I’ll try a loosing for you. I think one of them may be upset about the page you stole.”

“It was mine!”

“Not after it was offered to them, it wasn’t,” she said. “I did warn you about inscriptions . . .”

I scanned the courtyard. Though it seemed empty, those shadows could hide plenty. As I’d proven by, uh, getting caught.

This has to be some kind of sham, I thought.

I wasn’t given much time to think about it, as the good-natured guard returned. He eagerly held the door open for us, and even bowed as Sefawynn entered. Poets were given respect here, it seemed. Miss Bushman, my middle school English teacher, would have been proud.

Another bit remembered! Grinning, I followed Sefawynn into a small entryway. A pair of oil lamps hung from chains from the ceiling, and we trod over a bright orange-and-red rug on the floor. Sefawynn walked forward with her hand sheltering the flame on the lip of her lamp.

She turned left and led me into a large open room with a firebox in the center and a cauldron above it. It had a high ceiling—the structures here didn’t seem to have second floors—and the walls were decorated with shields and spears.

Near the fire, Lord Ealstan and a tall woman—I assumed his wife—spoke with the two messengers. They were facing him, but I could see them in profile.

It was the first time I’d seen their faces. I stopped. I knew them. That one on the left—the tall brute whose chin and forehead were trying to outdo one another—was Ulric Stromfin.

A man who absolutely, one hundred percent, no question about it, wanted me dead.