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front of the taproom fire while we heat up a bath for the lady.”
    It sounded like a fine idea to me. I left it to Fisk to take Rose inside and bargain over room rates, while I helped the groom lead the horses around to the stable and tipped a bit extra to see they were given plenty of oats and well rubbed down. There was a lad there who seemed quite taken with True, so I paid him a silver ha’ to see the shivering dog dried and bedded down. The lad swore he could get beef scraps from the kitchen, so I finally abandoned our furred comrades and went to seek warmth myself.
    True to his word, and mayhap his business acumen, our host had led Rose and Fisk to the roaring fire in the taproom and was conducting negotiations there. Except for a small man standing behind the bar, whose pale hair stuck out in awkward tufts, only two elderly men shared the room with us, sitting at a table near the windows with a scatter of cards between them.
    I shed my water-laden cloak and wended my way between the benches to the hearth. The fire was generous for such a sparse crowd, and Fisk stepped aside as I approached. I all but walked into the blaze, though I had to back off when steam started rising from my clothes. Not too far off, for the heat was delightful. Rose’s face was already losing that pinched look that comes of being too cold, and she pulled her hair loose so it could dry.
    They’d settled on a price for rooms, baths were heating, and we could go up as soon as the girl had warmed the beds. Though ’tis seldom a thing I trouble myself with, there’s something to be said for ready money.
    Then Rose asked, with a shy intensity that brought Master Potter to attention faster than a lord’s order, if there was a troupe of players in town.
    Yes, indeed there was. Come in two days ago, and Lord Fabian had hired them to perform in the town square on Skinday. The crier’d been announcing it all day, and everyone was looking forward to it. They’d likely save their best tricks for private performances, the rogues. But they had to make a living too, didn’t they now?
    I’d lost track of whether today was Furday or Finday, but either way, Skinday would be several days hence.
    Potter didn’t know the name of the troupe master, but ’twas unlikely two would visit this isolated town, and Rose’s face glowed brighter than the firelight on her flowing hair.
    Her joy in her player’s nearness was enough to strike gloom to anyone’s heart, but the ruddy light reminded me . . .
    “Master Potter, do you know if there’s a shepherd’s hut or some such thing, built on a rise atop the bluffs? ’Twould be mayhap an hour’s ride west in good weather, though it took us nearly two.”
    “On the bluffs?” Potter’s voice still held its practiced heartiness, but the geniality seeped from his expression, leaving it hard and intent. The foreboding I’d felt at the sight of the flames returned to me. “I don’t know of anything built there, sir. Why do you ask?”
    The two card players had turned to watch us, and the woolly-headed tapster forgot the glass he was drying.
    I replied with more caution than I’d intended. “We saw a great fire, burn—”
    The tapster dropped the glass. Rose jumped at the crash, looking as bewildered as I felt, but without my apprehension that for once my untrustworthy Gifts had spoken true.
    “You saw a fire on the cliffs and you didn’t report it?” Potter’s voice was sharp now.
    “I knew of no reason I should, for we are stran—”
    He’d already turned away. “Tippy, run for the sheriff. He might still catch the motherless bastards, if nothing else. Tell him to bring two extra horses—theirs are done in.”
    He had to shout the last of his instructions, for the tapster had taken off at a run, not even stopping to snatch up a cloak.
    “What’s wrong, Master Potter?” Fisk asked. “What was that fire?”
    “Ah, I’m sorry I spoke so sharp to you. New in town, there’s no way you could know.