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meeting her mother. Sometimes Rowan sensed that her father, more than anything, wanted to return to that stunning place with its magnificent castle set high upon rocky cliffs.
    Someday, she told herself, she would journey down the mountain passes that spilled from the north like spider veins, all the way to where the warm waters met pebbled shores, and see the palace city with her own eyes. She had heard enough stories, had seen enough artists’ renderings to know that it was an enchanted place, a magnificent city pearled with sapphire canals.
    Someday, Rowan told herself, someday she would see it with her own eyes, perhaps even live there. Her studies were the key, and she was capable of mastering them. Her fatherhad said as much, and she hoped with all her heart that he was right.
    As if reading her thoughts, Henry Rose held up a finger to her, and with his other hand rustled through some papers.
    “Since we’re speaking of Midway texts, I wondered if I might talk with you about your work on
The Book of Widows
,” he said.
    Rowan felt her palms growing sweaty. She had given her father her notes on a translation she was helping him with, and while she had hoped he might look them over before she continued with her work, she had not expected a formal review.
    “Is … is something wrong?”
    He furrowed his brow and smiled at her. “Quite the opposite, child. I was examining it this morning, and frankly, I am stunned. When I gave you the piece, I thought I might do so as a training exercise, but you’ve discovered something in here that I missed.”
    Rowan felt the anxiety draining from her as she processed his words.
    “You’re pleased, then?”
    “To say that I am pleased would be an understatement. Tell me, though,” he said, resting his chin on his palm. “How did you arrive at your conclusion?”
    Rowan cleared her throat, trying to keep the excitement from her voice. “Well, I suppose it was instinct, mostly. After really looking at it, I just knew that a mistake had been made somewhere along the way. The version we have is in the ancient Luric, but the story itself reminded meof something I’d read about the Midway peoples and one of their creation myths. That made me wonder if it might have originally been composed in a Midway tongue and since then translated into the Luric. So I began looking for words that might have been mistranslated, and I found two. It all comes down to a simple homophone, really.
Lan Ce Sai
, meaning ‘bloom colors’ or ‘colors bloom,’ but
Ce Sai
, when translated into the dialect of the Midway peoples, is the word
tsvety
, meaning ‘colors.’ Since the word
tsvety
has the homophone
tsveti
, which means ‘flowers’—I began to wonder if the word in the poem was not
colors
, but
flowers. Flowers bloom
. When you think about it, it seems rather obvious, and I don’t imagine that it changes much, but I thought I should make a note.”
    Her father stared at her with a mixture of surprise and delight. He shook his head.
    “Really, Rowan, I cannot tell you how impressed I am with what you’ve done. Whether the change is important or not is not for us to say. Our work is in the discovery. I’m going to send what you’ve done to the duke conservateur right away.”
    Rowan could barely believe his words. “You are?”
    “I am.” He smiled. “I am very proud of you, my child. Your gifts seem to grow with each passing moon.”
    “Thank you, Father,” she said as she watched him set her notes to the side.
    “Now,” he answered, “why don’t you eat with Emily. I’m afraid I won’t be joining you. I have far too much work ahead of me.”
    Pride filling her chest, she left her father’s study and went to wash up.

    Supper with Emily was stew again, and although Rowan could think of little other than her translations, Emily seemed able only to speak of Fiona Eira.
    “So lovely, she is. Tall for a girl. Funny, your being cousins.”
    “Why’s that?” Rowan said,