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don’t understand. You want a coin?”
    “A quint for me, a quint for my sister, or one for us both, be kind, a quint for us both, be kind.”
    Miri had no coins, neither heavy gold nor light copper, and she told them so, but they kept gripping. She gently tried to remove the boy’s hand, and he resisted, his voice getting louder.
    “A quint, a quint, be kind,” they repeated over and over, eyes wide but without hope.
    Miri told them firmly to let her go, she tried to push them away, but the children pressed harder, backing her against a gate, their hands gripping like hawk talons. She could smell their hair and clothing, so rancid it stung her nose. Their voices sawed at her, relentless. “A quint, a quint, be kind …”
    Then Timon was there. “Here,” he said, giving each child a small silver coin. “Now go on.”
    The children clutched the coins with both hands and ran, disappearing into the traffic on the bridge.
    Miri felt like crying. “I told them I didn’t have any, but they wouldn’t believe me.”
    “They’re used to people saying no. If you haven’t eaten in a day or two, hunger makes you desperate. And there are far too many poor and desperate in these streets.”
    “Poor? But this is Asland.”
    “There are poor in Asland, Miri. Didn’t you know? There are poor everywhere.”
    Katar had said the shoeless often went hungry, but until seeing the children Miri had not quite believed it.
    Then Miri recalled the thin girl from the town on their journey. The way the girl had watched Miri eat. How she had gnawed that stick. Her bony legs, her bare feet. Miri’s throat felt tight. She wished she could go back to that moment, say hello to the girl, share the meal.
    “No, I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” she said, both to Timon and to the girl in her memory. “On Mount Eskel, almost all our food came from the lowlands—I mean, from Asland and the rest of Danland. I guess I thought there were endless mounds of food here.”
    “Plenty of people in the lowlands do just fine,” Timon said. “But too often the children of farmers starve while the noble landowners grow fat. When the changes come—”
    Timon stopped. He looked around, as if to see if anyone else had heard him.
    “I shouldn’t have said … I didn’t mean—excuse me.” He started to go.
    Changes ? Did she dare ask? She started after him, but fear pushed against her, and it seemed to take an hour just to catch him on the bow of the bridge.
    “Timon, wait. Yesterday at the palace something happened.”
    He turned back. “You mean the attempt on the king’s life?”
    Miri stepped closer and whispered, “If there are changes coming, I’d like to know more. I’d like to help.”
    Timon’s eyes brightened. “Truly? But—”
    “I’m staying at the palace, but I’m not one of them. I hope you will trust me.”
    She’d promised Katar. And now the memory of that thin girl goaded her on.
    “I can’t speak freely,” he said, “but … I’ll talk to you as soon as I can. There is much happening.”
    His icy blue eyes flashed, and he smiled at her. Miri found herself smiling back. A tickle in her stomach slid up to her heart. Timon knew things, Miri was certain, and for the first time she wondered if perhaps the unknown changes to come might be wonderful.

Chapter Five

A quint, my lord, a quint for some grain
A quint for the rent, a roof from the rain
A sip of hot soup to fill empty space
An old wool scarf to warm my face
    So what did you do today?” Miri asked, entering the girls’ chamber. She posed in the doorway, in case they wanted a good look at her scholar robes. No one glanced up.
    “We sewed ,” said Bena. She was wearing her brown hair unbraided as well. It hung long to her waist and made her look even taller. “Ladies of the princess help in the wedding preparations, which apparently means sewing.”
    “And spinning,” said Esa.
    “How much thread does a wedding need?” Gerti asked, incredulous.
    “I miss