The room is indeed quite small, and has a cell-like quality, the windows little more than hand's-width slits framed by the Citadel's foot-thick stone sills, the floor smooth, cold granite.  Keshena waves off Lin's offer to help move in her things - she came here with only what she could carry, and in this little room it looks like even less: the fat costume case, a pouch that housed the last of her gold coins and now holds only a handful of silver, and a brace of weapons and tools she couldn't bring herself to run off into the wilderness without. They’re mostly kitchen implements.

She spreads her few belongings out on the floor and makes a heap of clothing in a corner as she strings up some lines to hang things.  There's a round electric fixture on the wall by the door; she turns the knob with some trepidation, but it doesn't shock her or explode, just fizzes a little as it comes to life with a strong yellowish light.  Keshena flinches at it, then adjusts a few of her clotheslines to block sight and light from that direction.  Have to get some kind of shade.  She sleeps in the pile of clothes.  It's not Miss Kelly's silk-draped boudoir, but she sleeps better in this cold cell than she ever did in those sweet-smelling rooms full of corpses.

When she wakes, she doesn't open her eyes, because the back of her neck is prickling with Den Roth's old instincts, the certainty that someone has moved nearby.  Then a heavy knock shakes the door.

Quick-change costuming was the first thing she learned as a child, and illusions make it easier.  She leaps out of bed, adjusts her wig, takes three quiet seconds to center herself and smooth over her hasty work, and peeks around the door.  Blocking much of the light from Lin's entryway is a burly fellow who has to stoop to avoid knocking out the light fixture on the ceiling; he offers her a very toothy grin.

"G'morning!  Keshena, yeah?  Lin said t'bring ya along on my rounds today, teach ya something maybe."  Presenting a huge, callused hand, he adds, "Klonk Gnarlstone the Fourth, my pleasure."

She squints up at him, quite sure for a moment that this must be a dream.  "Kl - " nope, that's not going to work, not with a straight face - "Mr. Gnarlstone.  I'd be delighted; can you give me five minutes to make myself presentable?"

"Yup; be waiting outside."  He stumps off, revealing Wolfram the caretaker holding the hallway door ajar and looking with extreme skepticism at the giant struggling to negotiate it.  She shuts her own door before he has a chance to turn to her for explanations.  Got fewer of those even than usual.

Klonk seems to approve of the properly-assembled Den Roth who appears at his elbow four minutes and twenty seconds later.  "Nice t'meet yer knives.  This ain't an assassination we're goin' on, though that ain't to say it couldn't happen - always be ready for the situation to go south, y'know?"

"So when you say 'rounds,' what do you mean?"

Though she expects him to lead her out of the city, instead Klonk climbs several staircases to a landing she's never seen before, and then to a deserted balcony, home only to a desiccated plant in an oversized urn.  "I mean collectin' payments from those as need t'pay, delivering messages to folks in the field, and keepin' an eye in the various places an eye's gotta be kept.  In the area of Capria, Pyclas, Green Lake, and Lack, tha’s my territory."

Keshena blanches.  "Do we have to go to Capria?"

Klonk looks down at her with a face as blank as the granite underfoot.  "Yeah, we got lots of business dealings in Capria.  Why, you famous there?"

"Famous isn't the word."

"Great, don't care then.  Got work to do.  You hear that?"

Gritting her teeth, Keshena checks her costume and murmurs, "I hear you."

"Not me.  Hear that little sound?  Whiny, ear-itchy kinda sound?"

Keshena stands still and listens.  She does hear it, and what's more, she recognizes it.  "It's... isn't that a portal?  I heard that in Capria, in the cave on the beach."

"Thread, it's called.  We've got a couple in Capria.  This'n leads to the arbor behind the Juniper Tree Inn."

Outside the town.  It's not likely anyone will be out in Capria at this hour, besides city guardsmen, and none of them could recognize Den Roth... she tells herself this with great conviction, and tries hard to believe it.  "All right, so we just jump through?"

“Wouldn' recommend jumping," Klonk says.  He ducks his head and approaches the far corner of the balcony gingerly, as if trying to detect a spider-web across his path.  "They make me a bit sick at the best o' times; jumpin'd probably make it worse.  There we go."  He twitches, then sidles a few steps before vanishing.  A little surprised, Keshena quickly follows.

When she comes to the corner of the balcony, there's a vertiginous sensation in her stomach, a momentary confusion as to which way is up, and a cacophonous clash of colors, like falling through a kaleidoscope.  She finds herself on all fours, gasping around a rising gorge, with Klonk standing nearby, hands on his knees.  The grass under her hands is thick and dewy, and the air is warm.  The salt-sweet smell of Capria is still too familiar.

"You... use those all the time?"

"Yeah."  Klonk helps her up.  "Kumani maintain four-hundred-thirty-eight threads t'everywhere y'might want to go on this continent.  Our work'd be impossible otherwise; imagine riding all the way to the Reach every day.  If ya run into one, and it don't work, tell Lin or me or one o' the others."

"By 'don’t work,' do you mean it just won't do anything?  No danger it'll strand me in a mind-shattering between-place from which I'll never return?"

Klonk snorts with laughter.  "No promises, but I've never heard of a Kumani gettin' stuck in a thread.  Lose a civilian that way, time to time, when someone's dumb enough to tinker with one.  I don' think they stay anywhere, though.  Smart money says they die."

Not exactly reassured, Keshena follows him to the back entrance of the Juniper Tree Inn, its keeper and guests still in their beds.  He points at the upper left corner of the door, and she squints to see a few symbols scratched into the lintel.

Under his breath, Klonk says, "First one means this's a safehouse.  They won't reveal Kumani to the guard, so long's you don't make an ass of yerself.  Second one means 'pitcher' - we pay somebody here to keep their ears open and report anything interestin'.  Usually, place like this, it's their minstrel.  Any bar or lodging east of Termini, you can talk to the minstrel if you need information."

Klonk taps on the window next to the kitchen door.  While they wait for a response, Keshena asks, "And the other symbol?"

"Means 'poison'.  Y'can buy poisons here, from the chef as it happens.  You'll see that a lot in Capria.  But you'll get the best price -"

"At the teahouse on the docks," Keshena finishes, and he squints at her.

"Aye, you're one o' Villi's, aren't ya?  So y'know about her shop.  Good."

The kitchen door opens a crack and a skinny young girl slips out, barefoot in a threadbare tunic and leggings.  She wiggles her fingers and grins up at Klonk, who pats her shoulder with a hand that could flatten her to the ground.

"Dania, Keshena - new recruit.  Keshena, this's Dania; she's our pitcher here."

Keshena shakes her head.  "'Pitcher?'"

Dania smiles.  "Little pitchers have big ears," she says.  "Never heard that one?"  Then she turns back to Klonk, who thumbs coins into her hand from the pouch on his belt.  When five silvers have vanished into her pocket, and Klonk has assumed a studious posture with a notebook and pencil made for much smaller hands than his, Dania begins to talk in a high-speed whisper.

"Cariv Dayle took the second seat of his house after Ehlana Dayle stepped down earlier this week, which puts the Council at thirteen Blues and seventeen Greens; Greens still can't put together a quorum on their own but they're getting close enough that it's making the Blue houses nervous.  Arzellyn, Malek, and Marharet Flori are at the greatest risk at the moment, way I figure it, but any Green Prata could end up sunk by next week."

Klonk nods vigorously as he makes notes.  Dania appears to keep all this trivia in her head, and she rattles on without pause for some minutes.  Keshena first attends carefully, and then her mind wanders - it's so similar to the way her husbands used to talk; the eternal, vicious game of seats and Houses and political pull in Capria is a topic that can sustain whole days of gossip and speculation.  She checks back in abruptly when she hears a name she recognizes.

" - at the Kelly estate, but they haven't found his young bride.  The estate is closed until the Kellys have it cleared and cleaned, likely next week - there'll be an auction for whatever they don't want to keep.  Landra Kelly wants the matter closed in haste, and I'd imagine she'd like to blame the Greens for it if she can."

"It was poison, aye?" Klonk asks, and Dania nods.  Keshena looks hard at Klonk's hands as he writes, focusing on his moving knuckles to maintain her concentration through the rising lump of terror and guilt in her chest.

"For sure, but nothing they can pin down without seeing the body.  They won't look hard; Kelly wasn't even third in line for his family’s seat.  Everyone can see it was something personal.  I think the girl killed him, took what she could carry and lit out for Shiel; that's what I'd do."

Keshena grips her elbows with both hands, wrapping arms hard across her chest as if the feelings could be crushed back down into her belly.  Klonk doesn't appear to notice her distress.

"Anythin' else?"

"Got the latest list of wine imports if you want that."

Klonk grins.  "If you ain't usin' it," he drawls, and the girl offers a twice-folded page with a ragged edge.

"You know I don't smuggle anymore."  Dania - who looks about fifteen - winks at Keshena and then slips back through the kitchen door into the dark inn.  Klonk pockets his notes and beckons.

"That'll do.  Next stop."

The wide streets of Capria are mostly deserted, as she hoped.  The burning knot in Keshena's chest doesn't subside as they pass a few sleepy guards blinking in the pre-dawn gloom, but none of them look twice at her.  A half-giant with an ugly grin and a scarred woman in black leather are both distinctly in the category of "things Capria's guards are well-paid to ignore."  Besides, neither of the city's jails could hold Klonk.  They're not much for imprisonment here; they prefer permanent solutions in Capria.

"So... are we gonna go to that auction?"

Klonk shrugs.  "Might send someone.  Probably not, don't see as it'll be much of a profit opportunity."

"Would... could I go?"

He peers at her.  "Aye, that's about the level of investment it deserves I suppose.  If you want.  Why?"

She tries to keep her voice light and offhand as she says, "Oh, I just haven't furnished my new room yet.  Might pick up some nice things cheap; folks'll think it's all haunted."

He nods and doesn't say anything as they continue down the street and turn in behind a brassworks.  "I guess that's why they say you're a murderer then?" he asks in the dimness of the alley, and Keshena startles badly even though his tone is no more than curious.  While she's trying to think of something to say, he stops outside the workshop's back door.  "See the marks?  Quiz now, what's that one?"

Scattered, Keshena says, "I - ah, it's the pitcher.  I mean, the informant one."

Klonk nods.  "Ayup, and that one next to it is 'business' - means we contract with this craftsman.  Y'don't steal here, or disrupt his work."

Keshena nods in answer.  Petty theft was never her style anyway.  What could a person steal at a brassworks that'd be worth trying to hide it in your coat?

The man who answers Klonk's knock is a tired-looking apprentice much older than Keshena looks, and there's no discussion here - this man gives Klonk a pouch of coin and rattles off an order of machined parts, chemicals, and electric wiring from Lion’s Reach.  Klonk takes this down in his book, along with a few names of prominent recent buyers, and the prentice goes back inside.

"Guessin' you looked a little different when you lived here," Klonk murmurs after the door shuts.  "That's good.  Don't give a damn about your past so long as it don't muck up your work, got that?"

Keshena nods.  "It won't.”

*******

Keshena savors the look on Lin's face a few days later when she opens her studio door and reveals an entirely new face to the Speaker.  Laughing, Lin shakes her head.  "I guess I'm going to have to get used to this!  Is that what you're wearing to the auction?  Who are we this time?"

Closing her door behind her, Keshena spreads her arms and turns to allow Lin the full view of her getup, including the folded wings arching above her shoulders.

"Kianari Larchol, harpy Numerologist.  Seen him in the library a few times.  I took some liberties with the clothes; I don't like fur as much as he seems to."  She curls her tongue around the accent, tightening her cheeks to narrow the airway - harpy tongues are less flexible than hers, but their throats can produce sounds she can't match.

"Are those actual wings?  They look so real!"

Keshena feels Lin's fingers brushing the feathers as she turns back around.  "That's because they are.  Did you know this city used to do a seasonal trade in severed harpy wings?"

"What?"

Chuckling, Keshena leads the way to the thread Klonk showed her, on the upper balcony behind the stairs to the rookery.  "These days the only ones you can find are in salvage shops, but a hundred years ago, there weren't any kind of transport laws about body parts, certainly not about harpies.  The Kumani were in on it, from what I understand - I knew some folks in Morrihm who bought specimens from them."

"That's disgusting; what happened to the harpies they took the wings from?"

Keshena glances at Lin.  "If they're lucky, they died," she says gently, and sees grim understanding dawn on Lin's face.

"Lion's Reach has a lot to answer for over the years," Lin murmurs, and Keshena nods.

"Aye, but so does everywhere else.  People are the same barbaric bastards no matter where you go, Lin; don't let 'em fool you."  Then she steps through the thread, and endures a timeless moment of sensory madness.  This time she manages to keep her feet on the other end, staggering against a tree and holding her gorge down as Lin bursts out of thin air behind her.

"S-so you found those wings in an antique shop, I hope?" Lin asks when she's caught her breath.

Keshena raises her head to look up at the Juniper Tree Inn basking in Capria's late-morning sunshine.  Lin, dressed in her usual brightly-colored silk with no consideration for the Reach's climate, sighs in gratitude at the warmth.

"Yep, here in Capria actually.  They don't move terribly well, but they'll do if no one asks me to fly."

Lin grins.  "Is it strange pretending to be a harpy?"

"The accent is tough, but apart from that, not really."

"Is it strange pretending to be a man?"

Keshena laughs, pitching it low so that the people on Capria's busy main street don't look sideways at her.  "Not as much as you'd think.  I don't know, I've never really... felt like a woman, particularly?  I become whatever face I'm wearing, and that's comfortable for me.  When it's a man, I'm a man.  When it's a woman, I'm a woman.  The parts I was born with don't do much for me but get in the way."

Lin thinks this over, and nods.  "That makes sense.  Perhaps if you prayed - " and then she stops, remembering Keshena's geas.  "Well.  The gods have been known to change their followers' bodies according to their need or desire."

Keshena shrugs.  "Unless they could change me into a shapeshifter, it wouldn't be any better than the body I'm living in now.  It's the limitations on my ability to change that I dislike, not any specific configuration."

"Maybe!  That sounds like something our Father would do.  The Artificer reshapes people into whatever form is most useful to His ends.  He'd probably be delighted at someone who wants that."

The auction house in Capria is at the end of Accarn Avenue, where goldsmiths, appraisers and jewelers do business.  Keshena navigates to it almost without thinking; after seventy years in the town, the comfort of being here is painful, knowing she's no longer very welcome.  There's a small crowd milling in and out of the open doors, examining the items on offer, and Keshena takes a moment to decide where in the hall she should linger, opting for the far side toward the back, to minimize eyes on her. 

Lin sits down on the bench beside her and leans over to whisper, then seems to think better of it.  Instead, she taps Keshena's arm to draw her eyes to Lin's hands, and begins slowly shaping the Kumani hand-signs.  Keshena hasn't learned enough to hold a conversation this way, but with whispered hints and the occasional nudge, Lin uses the opportunity to make her practice.

-You know this family?-

Keshena notes that the sign for "family" is almost the same as the one for "Kumani," and smiles at this.

-Yes.  I married their- drat it.  "Youngest?  How do we do ages?" she whispers. 

Lin runs through four signs.  "Old.  Adult.  Young.  Child.  If he's the youngest, it's 'young' with this little hook in it, see?"

Keshena nods and resumes signing.  -I married their youngest son.  And killed him.-

Lin doesn't flinch, but looks thoughtful.  -Did you-  The shape she makes then is strange, held against her body, and Keshena tilts her head. 

"Love," Lin murmurs, and asks alongside her moving hands, "Did... you... love... him?"

Keshena sighs, turning her eyes to the front of the room, where the house's porters are arranging a podium and gavel.  She watches this process without seeing it for a minute, then signs, -No.  But I didn’t hate him until recently.-

-Why?-

A big fellow is stopped on his way to the podium by the well-dressed patrons in the front row, whom Keshena recognizes as the deceased Kelly's relatives.  They hold a brief but fervent consultation, and the auctioneer doesn't appear entirely pleased with the results, but he carries on to his position and with a bang of his gavel spares Keshena from answering the question.

The auction will take all day, that's clear from the list of items on display.  Keshena watches her late husband's personal effects being pawed over and sold off with a weary lack of interest, while inside her head, little Miss Kelly helpfully conjures memories of every item's arrival in their home.  It makes her grit her teeth, and she feels a headache beginning above and behind her left eye.

"This is a sterling silver flatware set by Pearce of Shiel, stamped and dated 1388.  We'll start the bidding at - "

Fifty-eight sovereigns new, though I shouldn't know the price - it was a gift from the Beynons at that banquet last winter.  Phyllis Beynon made a terrible scene and then ran off with - Keshena clamps her hands over her ears for a moment, but this does nothing to silence the voices inside, only traps her in with them, like always.  She lowers her hands before Lin notices the twitch.

"We move now to a mid-century wheeled serving cart in exquisite cherrywood, a Cadwallder design, but as you'll note from the shopmarks here on the underside, this item was not assembled in Cadwallder's workshop - this is a Caprian original based on his catalogue.  An exceedingly rare item."

It's not rare.  Kelly's friend's sister... or sister's friend? - was the joiner, and he didn't pay for the Cadwallder catalogue, just copied an old Cadwallder cart he had in the studio.  Technically a fake, but no one will ever know.  Kelly liked the price.

It's worse than she expected, seeing all these things.  It's worse because they're all so meaningless, just discarded objects with nothing attached to them, not even grief, not even rage.  A pile of worthless things that were worth more than me.  The house belonged to them... I was just a guest.  A ghost.  She feels empty, and wishes she could find an emotion to fill the space, but all she can find are echoes, the sound of a hollow space where voices repeat and pile up into a deafening cacophony that, when it resolves, leaves nothing behind.  Dizzied and sick, Keshena looks down at her lap and finds Lin's hand resting on hers, Lin's great dark eye peering at her.

"You're pretty pale," Lin whispers.  "Do you need a break?  Could step outside."

The only item Keshena cares to see is about half a page down.  They won't get to it within the hour.  Keshena nods and squeezes Lin's hand, and they get up and quietly exit the hall as the auctioneer bangs his gavel and calls the number of the fake Cadwallder's lucky new owner.  Got cheated, that one, Kelly whispers in her head.  That's six times what it's worth, at least.

Outside, she slips around the corner and leans against the stone wall, warmed by a sun that's almost reached its zenith overhead.  The wall is festooned with honeysuckles, and their scent is almost chokingly sweet, not helping to settle Keshena's stomach one bit.  She wraps her arms around herself and closes her eyes, breathing shallowly.  The false wings on her back make her sweat and itch, and she rolls her shoulders to shift them, looking like nothing so much as a disgruntled black hawk crouched on the walkway.

"It's got to be hard for you," Lin murmurs at her elbow.  "I can't imagine all the different things you must be feeling about this."

Keshena lightly dabs at the sweat on her face with her sleeve, checking it each time for dislodged cosmetics, and focuses on maintaining the illusions that support the costume, searching for that steady place inside.  A bark of helpless laughter comes out without her permission.  "Yeah, that's... that's about the size of it.  So many things, or nothing - I'm not even sure I know the difference anymore."  Vague images arise out of the morass of memory, and she continues talking without attending much to her own words.  "When I met him, I hated him.  But Kelly didn't.  She liked his grace, and his gifts."

"Do... do your faces often disagree with you like that?"  Lin seems a little hesitant to ask about it, concerned she'll stumble into rudeness.

Keshena's smile is more of a grimace.  "Constantly."  Her fingers tremble as she resists the urge to clasp them over her ears again.

"It's not some kind of curse, or spirit...?"

She shakes her head.  "No.  I play games in the mirror because I can't touch the grass, but I do know the difference.  I never lose time, or forget what I’m doing.  Kelly is me.  So is Den Roth, so is Madame, and so is Kianari Larchol, for however long I wear him.  It's like... it's like a filter, like they put on lights in the theater, you understand?  Like a stained-glass window.  Bits of colored glass that turn the light different colors, and when the light changes, you can see things you couldn't see before.  These are all filters, different ways of looking at myself.  I take... parts of myself, things I want to understand or change, and allow those things to be embodied by a person I can talk to and get to know.  Does that make any kind of sense?"

Lin slides down the wall and sits cross-legged next to her.  "Yes, actually.  It seems like a very good technique for analyzing yourself.  Reminds me of some things Villi's told me, though I've never met anyone with your level of... commitment to the idea."

Shrugging, Keshena tries on a grin.  "Well, I've had a lot of time.  Things escalate, y’know?  After the first couple of lifetimes, your brain sort of starts to eat itself unless you find something to focus on.  And since nobody ever asks about it, it's just me going in circles internally for decades, getting weirder and weirder."

"That surprises me."

Keshena, surprised herself, glances at Lin.  "What does?"

"That nobody asks about it.  You seem incredibly interesting; I can't understand why no one's paid any attention to you."

Keshena is blinded by sudden tears, can't speak for a moment.  She looks at her hands.  "I... thank you."  Then she coughs, and grins again.  "I mean, people aren't interested in much besides themselves.  That's why wearing someone's face is a great way to hide."

"Have you ever worn someone's face to their face?  I mean -"

"Yes.  Yeah, I understand.  Have I met someone in person while wearing their face?  I have, often.  People don't love it."

Lin laughs.  "I wouldn't think so!"  She exhales through her nose and props her chin on one hand.  "You are a very strange person, Keshena.  You never use your real voice or real face, but you're more honest than most people I've ever met."  Then she reaches out and lays a hand on Keshena's knee.  "Is it okay if we're friends?"

Keshena looks pleased at first, then runs her fingers into her hair and looks as if her head's trying to escape on its own.  "I..." she says slowly.  "Trying to think through you being friends with me... or with people you don't know who are also me... or with someone I don't know who is who I really am... is... challenging?"  Her face works on it for a stressful moment, then she shakes her head.  "Let's make it simple.  I don't have any friends.  I'd like to have one.  And I trust you."  She offers Lin her hand.

Lin shakes it, then pulls her to her feet.  "You overthink everything!"

"Well, there are a lot of us thinking in here," Keshena murmurs.  She takes a few deep breaths.  "Okay.  We can go back in."

The barker is working at a good clip, in spite of the occasional highhanded interruption from the front row, and is getting near the lot Keshena wants.  The porters have brought it out already; she can see it, swaddled in padding, at the back of the stage with a pile of other things.  Strong emotion arises at the sight; for once every part of her is in agreement on something: this is mine.  Of all the possessions she's acquired and lost in two centuries, this one feels like hers, no matter which face she wears.

When Lin taps her wrist, wishing to resume their signed conversation, Keshena points at the swaddled item being wrestled up to the podium by a porter.  -We're here for that.-

-What is it?-

-It's mine.-

"It's a genuine pre-war relic, this, stamped with a maker's mark that originated in Morrihm over a century ago."  When he mentions the City of the Dead, the room gets quiet.  Not that Morrihm's goods are banned anywhere except Shiel, but most people won’t buy them - they assume anything built there must carry a curse.

"An arresting item, to be sure, a display piece for the foyer or ballroom, perhaps - a triptych mirror, three exquisite silvered-glass panels - yes, open it up there, man - in a wrought-iron frame embossed with some very interesting motifs."

The porter pulls down the swaddling, and the people in the front row recoil a little.  Two black iron panels lock over the central one with a little latch.  Every inch, back and front, of the mirror’s frame is worked with faces, as if one were looking down into a pool of oil that drowned hundreds, their agonized last expressions bubbling up and then smearing away.  Their emotions run the gamut - some are joyous, some wrathful, some fearful - but all are embossed with such skill as to chill the blood, as if real human faces were smothered in molten iron and used to decorate the mirror's backing.  They frame the silver sheets that appear when the porter lifts the latch, and the faces stare or cry or snarl at the plump, empty looks of the assembled bidders.  Keshena greets them with recognition and raises her numbered card when the gavel starts the bidding.  She's been looking at them for over a century now, and there isn't one among them that isn't more familiar to her than her own face.

"That looks heavy!" Lin whispers. 

The barker acknowledges Keshena's bid.  It takes a long few seconds for anyone to match it, during which Keshena nods.  "It is.  I think we can handle it between us, but getting it down the stairs from the thread might be tricky."

"Nat's working at home today; I'll get him out to help us when we get back to the Reach."  Lin pauses while Keshena throws up another bid.  The price is staying comfortingly low.  No one wants the creepy old thing.  "Did you actually get it in Morrihm?" Lin continues, and Keshena nods again.

"I lived there for a short time before the Quiet War.  Left before it got nasty.  Well, nastier."  Keshena raises her hand once more, and this time no higher bid answers her.

"Sold, for fifteen sovs, to number seven!"  The gavel falls again, and the porter closes up the mirror, then comes round to hand Keshena the ticket.  Another few items pass the podium before the mirror is shifted off to make room for more, and Keshena nudges Lin, who follows her out the door and around the building to the porters' entrance.

Exchanging the ticket for the mirror occasions a brief conflict with a clerk, who would prefer Keshena pay in gold coins like a civilized person, and resents being forced to do an impromptu appraisal of the fat gold brooch she presents him instead.  But it's a fist-sized lump of gold, much more than fifteen sovs melted down, and he can see that, so he waves them on after he’s gnawed on it a bit.

"Last of my old jewelry," Keshena murmurs to Lin.

"The mirror's prettier," Lin murmurs back, and Keshena smiles.

It's heavier even than she expected - haven’t had to move it myself in a century - but she's not Keshena Kelly anymore, which means she doesn't have to pretend to be weak.  She and Lin carry the mirror between them down the street toward the Juniper Tree Inn, right out in the open, while Keshena repeatedly reminds herself that this belongs to her, fair and proper; she's not a murderer making off with spoils.  Well, I am.  But I paid for these spoils.  That counts for something.

Back in the Citadel, Lin clatters down the stairs to fetch her husband, a barrel-shaped man with a big laugh and a square black beard, who can carry the mirror all on his own down to Keshena's little apartment.  He places it where she directs, in the corner near the windows where the light is good, and then goes back to his work with a wink at his wife.  Keshena sighs as the door closes, and stands in front of her mirror, feeling something inside her satisfied, at peace again.  Lin rests her chin on Keshena's shoulder and peers in with her.

“It’s very elegant; I see why you wanted it back.”

Keshena shrugs, making Lin’s head bob.  “I don’t know why I wanted it back, not really.  It’s just… the only thing I’ve kept with me, even when I ran away.  It remembers me.”  Her fingers skim over the smooth, cold glass.  “Sometimes it’s the only thing in the world that does.”

When she turns back to look at Lin, there’s a sweet sorrow in the Speaker’s eye.  “You don’t need to worry about that, Keshena,” she murmurs.  “Now that I’ve met you, I’ll certainly never forget you.”

Startled by emotion, again, Keshena blinks rapidly and laughs.  “Well, I’ll try to take that as a compliment!”

“You should,” Lin says, and squeezes her arm.  “Oh - I have a couple of books upstairs for you to study.  There will be a test.”  She glimpses Keshena’s sour expression before she quite closes the studio door, and Keshena hears her laughing all the way up the stairs.

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