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chair, but Zoe managed it. “Let me get my shoes,” she said.
    She put on her sturdiest pair of walkers, wrapped herself in the jingling shawl, and allowed Darien to help her down the steps. The damp air was chilly and clingy but not as cold as Zoe had expected. Well, of course, it was Quinncoru now; soon enough, the warm weather would arrive again.
    They had stepped out into the muddy yard of some kind of industrial housing—the place where the gas was stored or obtained, Zoe guessed. Darien left instructions with the drivers, and then hurried to her side. “I told them we will be back in two hours and I expect us to leave immediately,” he said.
    “Then I hope the recalcitrant machinery behaves,” she said.
    He gestured to his right and they started forward, stepping carefully until they reached the relative security of a paved walkway. “That’s the first time you’ve made a joke,” he observed. “That’s the first time you’ve shown . . . anything—at all.”
    His pronouncement was so startling to her that she lapsed back into silence.
    She had the sense that Darien Serlast was the kind of man who always strode through life; but here he allowed her to set the pace, and she was capable of no more than an amble. There was little to recommend the small town until they made their way past the industrial buildings and a few grim blocks of workingmen’s houses. Next came the larger houses, the places where the wealthier people lived, and then in the very center of town, one short street of commerce. There were perhaps fifteen or sixteen individual storefronts—a cobbler, a jeweler, a moneychanger, a bookseller, a dressmaker, an apothecary, a toolmaker.
    A row of lampposts marched down the center of the street, flickering into light against the grayness of the day. They looked utterly new, and Zoe guessed that these were the first gas-powered lighting fixtures to be installed in this town, courtesy of that useful Dochenza fuel. Her father had told her that gaslights could be found all over Chialto by now, though smaller towns were only slowly adopting the new invention.
    “Let’s eat something,” Darien said, making his way toward the storefront of a retail kitchen. “It will make a nice change from the sad meals I have put together every day.”
    Zoe followed him into the warm, aromatic building, where customers were already lining up at a glass counter near the back and filling the dozen or so tables set up front. Her mouth was tugging itself into a semblance of a smile. Darien was not much of a cook; he had clearly been at a loss when she had showed no disposition to make meals, either for herself or for him. She wondered what he had eaten during the long journey to find her. Had he subsisted on bread and dried meat, assuming that he would be well-fed on the return journey with the king’s intended bride preparing elaborate meals? Her father would have relished such hunti arrogance. Imagining him laughing was almost enough to make Zoe laugh.
    Almost.
    Behind the glass counter was an excellent assortment of baked goods, fresh vegetables, and cooked meats, and Zoe was surprised to feel the stir of hunger. She ordered everything that looked appetizing, which caused Darien to give her a sideways glance full of amusement. He ordered almost as much, and then asked for a basket to carry any uneaten portions back to the wagon. They would have decent meals for the next few days, at least.
    They found a table near the window and watched the townsfolk hurry past, heads bowed against the rain that had started up again. Zoe saw a circle of children splashing enthusiastically through a particularly big puddle, and several adults who paused and turned their faces up to let the water sluice down their cheeks.
    “It’s good to see children playing in the rain,” Darien said, gesturing toward the streets. “The Marisi River is lower than it has ever been, though snowmelt still comes down from the mountains. A few of