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corner of her eye—Odo become more agitated.
    She pulled back. He relaxed. She went forward. He tensed.
    “Odo,” she asked, certain it was her nearness to the pot that was upsetting him, “did you ever—for a certainty—know if Master actually made gold?”
    When the raven gave no answer, she moved her hand toward the pot.
    “Sybil!” shrilled the bird.
    She looked about.
    “Perhaps,” said Odo, “I should have told you before: I think Master found the way to make gold. In fact, I believe he was making it when he had his stroke.”
    “What makes you say that?”
    “He cried out,” said the raven, “as I never heard before. It’s what woke me. Come here, and I’ll describe it.”
    Sybil, convinced Odo was trying to keep her from the pot, did not move. “Odo, if Master did make gold it should be about. Could it be—in here?” She gestured toward the pot.
    The bird bobbed his head up and down. “You may be assured I’ve looked. It’s not there.”
    Sybil felt a surge of anger. “When did you look?”
    “When I discovered him ill.”
    “And what, Master raven, did you find?”
    “I told you, nothing.”
    “Is that when you woke me?” cried Sybil. “Only after you found nothing?” Furious, she plunged her hand into the pot.
    “Don’t!” screamed the bird.
    Sybil worked her fingers through the thick, pongy mess. Touching some lumps, she cried, “Odo, there is something.”
    “Gold?” cried the bird. He hopped toward her.
    Sybil snatched up the lumps, and turned from him.
    “Is it gold?” repeated Odo, beating about her. “Is it?”
    Keeping her back to the bird, Sybil wiped the lumps on her gown and looked at them. There were three of them, greenish, imperfectly round, each smaller than the next, the smallest the size of a pea. “They are only stones,” she said, with a sinking heart. “Green ones.”
    “Show them to me!” squawked Odo as he jumped to her arm and gave her a sharp peck. Sybil, clutching the stones in one hand, smacked the bird away with the other.
    Odo glared up at her from the floor. “Idiot!”
    Sybil, annoyed by the bird, went to the foot of the bed, where a wooden chest sat upon the floor. She knelt. Trusting the lid screened her movements, she put the stones beneath a bolt of cloth, then took up a small leather pouch—Thorston’s money pouch. She let the chest lid slam shut and drew out the few coins that were inside. “What will give out first—Master, the money—or us?”
    “What difference will a few coins make?” spat out the raven. “All you’ve insured is that our deaths will closely follow his.” He shook his head, jumped to the window, and peered out through the glass, tail feathers twitching with agitation. Suddenly he croaked, “Sybil—a boy is coming here.”
    2

    “Are you certain?” cried Sybil, forgetting about the stones.
    “Where else could he be going?” said Odo. “There’s no other house but ours in this horrid court. God’s mercy! He’s with the city reeve.”
    “Master Bashcroft?”
    “Yes! He’s pushing the boy—who doesn’t seem eager to move—forward. Now the reeve has retreated. But not far. He’s shaking a fist at the lad.”
    “Does the boy have green eyes?”
    “Sybil, I don’t care if he’s entirely green. If it’s Bashcroft who’s sending him, we should have nothing to do with him.”
    Sybil opened the chest, threw back Thorston’s pouch, slammed the lid back down, and stood up. “But green eyes are what I need,” she said. She took up the candle and headed for the steps.
    “Are you truly going to let him in?” Odo screeched after her.
    “I am,” said Sybil, “but things will go badly if he hears you talk.”
    She hurried to the ground floor just in time to hear a timid knock on the door.
    “Who’s there?” she called.
    “Please, I’m a child,” said a small voice. “With green eyes. I’m here to see Master Thorston.”
    Sybil looked around at Odo, who had followed her down the steps.