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while keeping her eyes away from the carvings around its edge. Even veiled in moss, they could catch hold of one’s eyes, captivate one, melt a person down into the stone to become one with it, or so the Woman Upstairs had said, though that threat had not greatly bothered Xulai. Things one was instructed not to look at were far less fearful than things that forced themselves upon unwilling eyes.
    From the far side of the bridge, Abasio, who had followed her closely each trembling step of the way, heard a sound behind him. He slipped between two trees into a web of darkness, leapt over the quarrelsome streamlet, and circled the temple with a few long, careful strides. From among the trees behind the temple, he saw Xulai drop to her knees. Now what? She was trembling, her eyes shut, thinking. “Good for you, girl,” he murmured to himself . “Good for you, little maiden!”
    The Woman Upstairs had said, “ In the floor behind the altar. A triangular stone, small, not heavy, but you’ll need something sharp to pry it up with. ”
    Her fingers closed on the awl in her pocket. She had taken it from the shoemaker’s stall just as he had been closing his booth for the night. Just before suppertime the castle yard bustled and echoed in a confusion of men shouting, wagon wheels grinding on the stones, horses clopping toward the stables, women screeching for their children. The shoemaker, dressed all in shiny leather like a cricket, had been eager to get home to his new wife. He wouldn’t look for the awl until morning, and by then, Xulai would have pushed it back through a hole in the shutter. If she ever got back to the castle. If she could find the right stone, one triangular stone among a great many stones that looked more or less triangular.
    “Oh where?” she whispered. “Where?”
    “Think!” said the voice of the wagon driver, as though from beside her ear. “Think!”
    She thought, Stone, and there it was: one that glowed and trembled, almost calling her by name! Xulai inserted the awl at one edge and pried it up. The cavity below held a small wooden box. She thrust it into her pocket, at the same instant hearing voices! People! At least two of them on the path and coming quickly toward the temple.
    She replaced the stone and quickly scuffed dirt into the cracks around it, scattered a few pine needles over it, and moved away from the altar. She could not go back the way she had come. She had been told not to leave the path. There was no path! The only shelter was among the shadows she had been so frightened of . . .
    The voices came closer. She tried not to breathe, suddenly realizing the awl was not in her hand, not in her pocket. Then, suddenly, an arm was around her, a voice in her ear.
    “Shh. Here’s your awl. Slip under my cloak. Be still.”
    Abasio! She scrambled against him, burrowing into the darkness of his cloak, letting him cover her like a cloud as he crouched, then lay in the darkness between the trees, among the leaves, ferns before their faces, her body between his side and his cloak, his arm holding her gently there, invisible. She sighed, drawing closer to him, feeling his warmth.
    “What was that?” demanded a high, imperious voice.
    “Some beastie.” This was a deeper voice, smooth and oily, like the slosh of pig slop in the bucket. “That’s what woods are full of, lovely lady. Lots of little beastie creatures hunting their dinner.”
    Xulai felt a dark-sleeved arm cover her face, felt Abasio’s head close beside hers, his slitted eyes peering at the newcomers from a face he had painted dark with mud. Something moved on her hand. She opened one eye to see two tiny black eyes, a wriggly nose, two fragile ears like new leaves, a striped back beneath a curved tail: a chipmunklet, scarcely bigger than her thumb. It sat on the edge of her sleeve and peered intently at the noisy intruders beyond the temple.
    “So, where is this night wanderer?” the high voice queried, a voice of ice