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took her place on the bench, snatched the comb up in quick fingers, and began to gently work it through the damp knots.
    "Thank you, Nancy," Becca murmured. The sight of her flame-limned reflection upset her stomach. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the sensation of her hair being combed.
    Eventually, the tugging came to an end. Carefully, Becca opened her eyes, and saw Nancy hovering just behind her fiery left shoulder, apparently at a loss as to what she should do next.
    "A single braid, please," Becca said, her voice hoarse. She cleared her throat and continued. "Pin it up securely so that it will go under a hat. I will be riding out immediately." There was a movement at the corner of her eye. She turned her head to look at the Gossamers hovering there.
    "Please saddle Rosamunde and have her brought 'round," she said, wondering if this order would be obeyed as thoroughly as the others. If she had to force the Gossamers—well, how could she force such creatures? They were not her servants. They were Altimere's . . .  creatures , bound to him in ways she she really did not wish to think about. Say, indeed, that they were her jailers, whatever they might desire in their private hearts.
    If they had hearts, private or otherwise.
    It seemed to her overwrought nerves that the Gossamers did hesitate, tentacles meditatively stroking the busy air. Just as Becca despaired of being obeyed, Nancy spun in a flash of wings, one hand at her hip, the other shaking the comb fiercely. Very nearly Becca could hear her scolding—"You have your orders, then! Be off with you!"
    As if they, too, had heard Nancy's mute scold, the Gossamers were gone, fading into the sunlight. Nancy gave a satisfied nod, hefted the comb to part Becca's hair, and began to braid it.
     
    The path had failed to reveal itself. Which was, Altimere owned . . . disturbing.
    He expected complications and misdirection from Zaldore, not subtlety. Perhaps she had learnt more from her grandmother than he had supposed. Now, there had been a philosopher both subtle and wily. Lost in the war, of course, like everyone he had known, once.
    The mist swirled 'round him, and it seemed for a moment that he saw the curve of a cheek, heard the firm tone of her voice—and that , he told himself, shaking the illusion away, was no more subtle than a bludgeon. Tanalore the White had fallen before despair and extremity had pushed those few of the Elders who were left into madness. She was no mist-wraith.
    The mist, though. The mist. There was an odd texture to it, a coarseness, and a will to adhere that he did not associate with the similar mists of the keleigh . Perhaps confinement altered its substance. Though, if it were confined, he had yet to discover the walls that bound it.
    Perhaps, he thought, it was not after all the same mist the keleigh manifested, but some other, created to mimic those terrible forces. He could not fathom the purpose of doing such a thing. Nor could he fathom Zaldore's reasons for turning upon him now . He had expected her to use him, and the kest he had collected, in her cause to depose the Bookkeeper Queen. After —that was when he had looked for treachery. Well. Soon enough to learn the answer to this mystery when he had won free.
    Perhaps, he thought, he had not been quite wise to accept Zaldore's invitation armored with only a tithe of the kest his pretty child had gathered for him. But, there. His own kest and wits had always been quite enough protection; and the gleanings were intended for another use.
    It was warm in this place, wherever it was. Altimere shook a handkerchief from the mist and daubed the sweat from his forehead. He wondered—he did most seriously wonder, if he dared leave his chair and attempt to forge his own path through the mist. That would be a bold move. And risky; very, very risky.
    If he meant to survive such boldness, he would need to move while his kest was resolute and his faculties intact. Too much of