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were already twitching. Not for the first time he felt sympathy for how the rabbit felt when the tarn passed overhead.
    There was no time to linger on that, or to gawk at the line of plants, twice his height and heavy with fragrant, dark red flowers lining the path, because the house—the House of Malech—demanded his attention. A tall stone façade, the same golden color as the path, was set atop a slight rise, with narrow windows glittering with colored glass on either side of the entrance. It was even more impressive—terrifying— up close. If a building could speak, he thought, this one would sneer at a slave coming so close to its walls.
    Slowly he forced the nerves away and noticed that the great polished wooden doors were open, standing ajar as though they never needed to be closed against night or theft or weather. Maybe, the boy thought, they didn’t. Not even a winter storm would dare enter such a grand structure without permission. He wasn’t sure he should enter, either, but the Master went inside, not pausing to check on the slave behind him. Torn between uncertainty and the Master’s certain anger if he fell behind, the boy followed.
    The doorway did not strike him down when he crossed through it. Once inside the entrance he had to stop, completely overwhelmed. The hallway inside was more than three times the Master’s height, and large enough for a handcart to travel through without scraping the walls. Those great narrow windows let in colored sunlight, sparkling off a gleaming, pale brown stone floor. What words he had failed him utterly, and he gaped like a fish.
    “It’s just a building, boy.”
    The Master’s voice made him blink, and his jaw slowly closed as he looked around, trying to find something more reasonable to focus on. He looked at the Vineart, the tall, lean form somehow less terrifying here, but had to look away again quickly, for fear of being trapped by the Master’s too-bright gaze. All he caught was the impression of a long, lean face, framed at one end by graying hair and at the other by a pointed beard of the same gray-brown.
    The hallway was not any easier to comprehend. On either side of him, plastered walls were covered by richly colored tapestries depicting scenes of vineyards, while directly in front of him was a wide staircase made of polished golden wood, rising up to a second level and a smaller wooden door, this one closed. The door was easier to look at. A closed door he could understand.
    Having determined that his slave wasn’t going to pass out in shock, Master Malech turned around as though searching for something himself.
    “Detta! Detta, attend me!”
    The Master, the boy thought, startled, had a set of lungs you wouldn’t expect, looking at him. Tall and slender, like he had been half starved and never quite made up the difference, and yet his call to the unseen Detta filled the entryway and echoed up the stairs as if it came from the chest of a much larger man. His voice sounded different here, too, although the boy couldn’t say how or why.
    The summons was quickly answered, as a woman came out from behind the stairs, wiping her hands on an apron tied around her mid-section. The boy left off staring at his surroundings, and stared at her instead. If the Master was narrow, this was the roundest woman he had ever seen. Her face was round, her hips were round, even her eyes were round, and got even rounder as she noticed him standing there, a few paces behind the Master. He was still uncertain if he was truly meant to enter the building or if this was some strange test he was about to fail and finally be punished for his insolence.
    “A new one?” she asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “It will be needing a bath, then. A solid scrubbing, if I remember rightly. Why you don’t just throw them in the river before you bring them in; it would be much the same to them.”
    “Detta.” The Master’s voice was quieter now, again with a tone to it the boy