When about to get caught in the act, there are always many solutions to the problem. Deny it, plead for forgiveness, roll with it... Taking off my shirt never entered my mind. Apparently, however, it's at least in Sean's top ten because that's exactly what he does before Marcí walks in. When she enters, Sean is reclining bare-chested among ruffled blankets and rumpled pillows. A startled exclamation cuts off her flow of words as her wide eyes dart between me and him. Her cheeks speckle scarlet.

My expression is surely similar as I sputter, "Missus Marcí, this—"

Marcí waves her hand, forestalling any explanation. Eyes trained on the ground, she says, "I really don't want to know. Really don't. In fact, I so much don't want to know, why don't we just talk about something else entirely? For example, what I came up here to discuss. Miss Leavi, why don't we head downstairs? Mr. Sean can join us in a moment." She nods once and leaves.

I turn and stare at Sean like he's insane.

Languidly, he stands, smirking. "Well that worked, didn't it?"

I pick up his shirt and pitch it at him, hoping for a satisfying smack. Instead, he ducks, and it knocks over the candlestick holder on the bedside table. The metal clatters to the ground. From the landing, Marcí calls, "Is everything alright in there?"

"Yes," Sean calls back unconcernedly. "Be down in a moment."

"Well. Come along, Miss Leavi."

I edge toward the door and hiss, "Hide him."

"Where?" he whispers back. "Out the window? He'll be fine as long as he stays quiet and the landlady doesn't come back up here." He turns to the blanket-covered boy. "Stay quiet," he commands in Avadelian, "and don't move." Then he turns back to me. "And you need to go before the woman gets suspicious." I press my lips together, giving one last glance to our hidden fugitive.

I slip out, Sean following a few moments after. Marcí waits for us in the dining room. After we enter, she draws the double doors on either side of the room closed. For once, she's unnervingly quiet, looking between the two of us. "Well," she finally says. "Aren't you going to sit? That is what the chairs are for."

Confused, I do. Sean leans against the wall.

A hand comes to rest on Marcí's hip, a frown creasing her lips. "I have been more than generous with the two of you. Letting you come into my house, eat at my table, sleep in my beds. I expect a bit of respect in return. Please," she emphasizes, eyeing Sean, "sit."

He hesitates, then slides into a chair beside me.

She nods, stepping forward. Her hands rest on the back of a chair. "So, I just had two very interesting visitors come to the house. Would you like to guess who they were?"

From Sean's pocket, a clock ticks in the silence.

"No? I am surprised! Well, how about I give you a hint? In fact, you might even know them, considering you work together. Or, at least, you used to. They seemed to be under the impression that you'd up and quit, no word, no anything." She raises her brows in a falsely innocent and inquisitive expression. "Do you know why that might have happened? No? Oh, and I haven't even gotten to telling you who they were yet. Silly me."

She moves to sit, leaning forward on the table. "You see, my visitors were two lovely guards from Veradeaux Manor. And I know you two haven't been around here very long, but if you had, you would know this: if the guards of Veradeaux are interested in you, then you've done something wrong. Something very wrong indeed. As in, you might want to think about not living in the area anymore." Her serious eyes, a trait I thought I'd never see in Marcí, regard us. "So what, exactly, have you two done?"

My mouth goes dry. We're had. What idiots were we to bring a wanted man home to a friend of the woman who wants him? Marcí's still watching us, something soft, curious almost, behind the gravity of her gaze.

This is the woman who took in two strays from the rain. The woman who gives treats to a cat who surely can't mouse. The woman who runs an inn with no paying customers. No matter how close she and Lady Veradeaux may or may not be, she's not going to turn away someone in need.

I hope.

"Missus Marcí." I pause, meeting her level gaze, and realize I'm not going to be able to spin this. If she has the faintest inkling that I might be lying, she'll turn us in. My mind flashes back to the mountainside with the fallen cart and all those condemning fingers pointing my way. We're strangers in a foreign land, and natives don't take strangers' sides.

"I'm waiting, dear."

I can't just tell her the truth; I must tell her the truth and make her believe it's the truth. I take a deep breath and dive in. "What we did, we did to help a man."

Sean's head snaps toward me. In Errelian, he hisses, "What the blazes are you doing, Riveirre?"

I cut him off with a gesture, and Marcí's eyes narrow. "What are you two saying?"

You know what step one of getting someone to trust you is, Eleaviara? my mother lectured.

I turn, angling myself toward Marcí and away from Sean. Open body language, she told me.

And step two? "He wanted to know what I am doing," I answer.

Honesty. People can smell a lie like a dead fish.

"Leavi!" Sean exclaims.

Step three?

I ignore him. Marcí regards us curiously, and I meet her gaze evenly, hesitant smile at my lips. Eye contact. Undivided attention. Make them feel important, whether or not they really are.

Marcí settles back in her chair.

Because when they feel important, they feel in control. When they feel in control, they relax. And when they're relaxed, they're ready to listen to you.

"Go on, dear," she says. "What did you do at the manor to get the Veradeaux guards after you?"

Step four? I pause. Slow speech. Liars are nervous, frivolous fast-talkers. But a slow pace adds weight to your words. People will listen when they think you know what you're talking about. "We helped a man. A man Lady Veradeaux had..." I mime turning a key as I try to think of the right word. "Locked in her manor."

"Lady Veradeaux had someone imprisoned?"

I nod.

Her lips twist. "There haven't been any trials lately."

I wait, letting her come to her own conclusions.

She shakes her head, suddenly demanding. "How is this possible?"

"I don't know, Missus Marcí," I answer calmly. "All I know is the boy was locked in a room without food, or light, or a blanket."

Shock filters across her features. "Veradeaux wouldn't... Surely. She can be a cold woman, for certain, to servants and the such, but—" She shakes her head again. "No. There's something else going on here. If Veradeaux was holding someone, there had to be a reason." Marcí rises. "You brought him here, I presume?"

I'm losing her. And the last, most important step? my mother finished.

"Missus Marcí, please."

The innkeeper pauses.

Passion. Be so passionate they don't just hear it in your voice, but they see it in your eyes, in the tilt of your body. Be passionate enough they can't deny that you, at least, believe what you say. Be passionate enough that they want to believe it too.

"He needs help. He's been..." Words in my language tumble around in my head faster than they can come out of my mouth in a tongue that she can understand. I almost turn to Sean to have him translate but stop myself.

Open body language. Honesty. Eye contact. Slow speech.

Passion.

"The people at that manor have put him through worse than I..." I swallow, thinking of all the fear, the hunger, the bone-aching exhaustion of my journey here, yet honestly say, "Worse than I can even dream about. Locked in a dark room. Hungry. Weak. Helpless."

She breaks eye contact with me.

"I don't think anyone deserves that, Missus Marcí. No matter... No matter what they have done."

She wrings her hands, eyes down as if thinking.

"Please don't send him back to that. If—" I pause, weighing the words before committing to them. I forge ahead. "If you think I am bad—wrong," I correct, "for helping him..." I take a deep breath. "Send me to the manor. Send me back."

"Are you crazy?" Sean exclaims in Errelian.

I ignore him. "But don't send the boy, and don't send Sean. It was my..." I tap my temple. "Idea. Let them leave, and send me."

Marcí's eyes meet mine now, and I feel like she's digging into my soul, weighing my sincerity.

Open body language. Honesty. Eye contact. I have nothing to hide.

Her lips press into a thin, white line. "Alright."

My heart drops into my stomach.

"There's no way I'm going to let you send her off to that madhouse!" Sean protests.

Marcí waves her hand, cutting him off. "No one's getting sent back to the manor. That's not what I meant at all. Goodness." She shakes her head exasperatedly. "Take me to him."

Warily, I nod and start off, but Sean says, "What about the guards?"

She waves that away too. "I already sent them away. Told them you skipped town. Now, the boy?"

Relief courses through me, and I push out of the dining room and lead Marcí upstairs. We open the door. On the mattress, the boy is remarkably still. It looks more like an unkempt bed than a hiding place.

"Where is he?" Marcí asks.

Sean nudges past us and flicks the blankets down, disturbing the pillows and exposing the boy's face.

Marcí's eyes widen. "Oh my."

The boy's gaze flicks over all of us distrustfully. "What is going on?"

I step forward. I wonder what this must all seem like to him—in a cell, delusional from hunger one day, and then waking up here, lost and knowing no one. "It's okay." I sit at the foot of the bed. "This is Missus Marcí, the innkeeper. She wants to help you."

The suspicion in his eyes softens some, but his gaze is still keen, searching, like a scientist waiting for the final piece of data before reaching his conclusion.

"She turned away the guards looking for you," I add.

The room is quiet as he considers. After a moment, Marcí says, "Leavi, dear, you only got through half of your introduction. What is his name?"

I look at the boy to answer.

He holds out a trembling hand, palm up. "Aster. Pleased to meet you, Maedame Marcí." A frustrated look blinks onto his face, but it disappears just as quickly.

"Maedame?" Marcí takes his hand, blushing. "So very proper. I take it you're from Morineaux?"

He gives a single, curt nod as he draws back. "Yes, maedame."

A somber look passes over Marcí's expression. "I just can't fathom why Veradeaux—you're a young Morineause man, one of her own people. I just, I can't fathom it. The things Leavi told me—" She shakes her head, then stares Aster straight in the eyes. "Did she really imprison you? Starve you?" She shakes her head again. "Well, look at you; she must have unless you're some vagrant. So it's true."

Aster swallows, a dark look passing through his eyes. "Yes, maedame. It is true."

Marcí shakes out her hands, as if settling her nerves. "Well, then." She clasps them in front of her. "As long as you're in my house, you'll receive proper Morineause hospitality, and first on that list is a good meal. I'll be right back, dear."

After Marcí leaves, the atmosphere of the room goes flat. Sean is contemplating some middle distance, and either Aster is quiet by nature or doesn't know what to say. I consider starting some conversation myself, but figure whatever trivial topic I pick, Sean will shoot down with some snarky comment. So we wait.

Thankfully, it's not too long before Marcí returns. A tinkling arises from an overstuffed tray of cups and saucers as she makes her way into the room. "Here you are, dear," she announces, settling the tray in his lap.

"Oh." His eyes widen at the abundance of snacks and drinks. "Thank you, Maedame Marcí," he manages after a moment.

She waves it away. "I wasn't sure what you would want, so I grabbed a little of everything. But I'm sure you could use it. Go ahead, eat up."

He nods, giving her a thin smile, and picks up his fork. Surprisingly, malnourished as he is, he doesn't scarf the food down. Admittedly, there is some speed to his movements, but they are all precise, polite, dainty almost. Marcí, much out of character, waits to speak until he's finished. Folding his napkin, he says, "Thank you again, maedame, for your hospitality."

"Of course, my dear, of course. Now, if you're all done—"

A crash shatters the soft noises of the room as the tray Aster was setting aside tumbles to the floor. His open hands hover in the air, eyes closed but flickering, like a man dreaming. Everyone stands there, shocked, as tea slowly seeps into the carpet.

His eyes snap back open. He takes in a steadying breath, gaze flicking to the catastrophe of china on the floor.

"Oh. I apologize, maedame. That must be my fault," he says. He moves to lower himself down, as though to clean up the mess, the only one of us seemingly untouched by the oddity of the situation.

Marcí recovers, waving him back into bed. "Stop that. You're worried about my dishes, meanwhile you nearly stopped my beating heart with all of that, you dropping things and going still and scaring the wits out of the rest of us. What was that anyway? Do you have some sort of infirmity? Here, back in bed now—"

"Infirmity?" Confusion crinkles his eyebrows. "Not that I was aware of. Other than what," he says, a sour look twisting his lips, "the Lady Veradeaux did."

"Well, you certainly must have developed one, then, unless you habitually go around throwing people's breakables into the floor."

"No, maedame..." Suddenly, the confusion clears his face. "You mean the, ahm, the vision." He bites the side of his lip in a bothered sort of way. The moment stretches as we all try to figure out what he's talking about.

"What do you mean?" I ask, unnerved.

He nods once, as if coming to some decision, and turns toward Marcí. "Maedame, I advise that you avoid your porch for the winter."

"My porch, dear?" she repeats, as though trying to make sure she heard correctly.

He nods, offering no further explanation.

Marcí seems at a loss. "But I have to use that to leave my house."

"I'm not sure what to tell you, maedame."

I cut into their conversation with the question Marcí doesn't seem to know how to ask. "Why?"

Aster glances at me. "What?"

"Why can she not go? On the porch," I add.

"Oh." He seems uncomfortable but continues. "She'll fall."

I look at him askew. "How do you know?"

He hesitates. "My magic. It was a vision, like I said."

Marcí says, "You're a magician? Like you said, that is magic. Seeing the future, I mean."

Aster nods hesitantly, mild discomfort in his eyes.

"Oh, good! Very good! In that case, you must do some tricks for us when you are feeling better. It would be such a treat. I've never seen a real magician before." She smiles, chatting with him a second longer before she leaves.

I glance over at Sean and ask in Errelian, "What are they saying? 'Magician'?"

One sardonic brow lifts. "You know. Con-artists in the streets, lifting wallets and dazzling crowds." He waggles his fingers in mockery.

My gaze slides over to the thin boy on the bed curiously and worriedly trying to follow our conversation. "Him?" He doesn't look like any of the slick charlatans I've ever seen.

Sean shrugs. "That's what he said. Anyway, I'm out. I don't care to get tricked out of what few coins I have. Let me know when you're ready to leave. 'Vision,'" he scoffs as he goes, shaking his head.

After a moment, Aster asks, "What was that?"

My attention returns to him. We were talking about you. "I asked him to explain a word," I answer instead.

His head tilts, voice pointed. "That was a long conversation for a translation."

He reminds me of a boy I used to go to university with. Kind, but quiet. Sat in the back of the class watching everything. Everyone figured he was that solid C student—after all, he never bragged about his grades, and where I went to school, if you're not bragging then you don't have anything to brag about. At the end of the year, he was on the honor roll list.

I shrug. Neither of us says anything until my curiosity gets the better of me. "Why did Veradeaux want to know things about N'veauvia?"

His eyes turn serious, thoughtful. "I don't know. She didn't tell me. But I'm sure it won't be good for the city. They were the kind of questions you ask if you were wanting to attack."

"How did she find you? Morineaux is," I say, thinking of the way Jacin talked about the country, "far from here. No?"

"She sent me an invitation to the manor, claiming it was an academy for casters. When I arrived, they grabbed me, took my things, and dragged me to the cell." Bitterness laces his words.

I lean forward, intrigued. "Why would she want to hurt her own country?"

He shrugs, looking back up. "She used to be important in the castle. I didn't know her that well, but she was known even then for doing whatever it took to get what she wanted."

I shake my head slightly. "I don't understand." I'm missing certain phrases and desperately wishing I wasn't. His words carry a sadness behind them, and I'm lost as to why.

He presses his lips together, then continues his story, perhaps hoping to clarify matters. "She was a liar and a thief, stealing our secrets and selling them to other countries. That red ring she has—have you seen it?" I nod. "It's a Retran gem, and the final thing that gave her away. She wore it like the crown jewels." His lip curls. "The queen set a date for her trial, but Veradeaux never showed. She fled the country instead." His gaze has moved away from me onto some point in the past. After a moment, he comes back, saying bitterly, "This, whatever she's planning for Morineaux, is her azhiet-friae."

I struggle to repeat the strange word, confused.

"Oh." He smiles at me softly. "Sorry. I suppose that's not Avadelian, is it?" Slightly slower, he repeats, "Azhiet-friae. Her, ahm... actually I am not sure how to say it in this language. It is like when someone does something to you, so you do it to them, but worse." He shakes his head ruefully. "I am afraid that is not a very good explanation."

"No, no," I assure. "I think I understand." Revenge.

His smile widens. "Good. I am not completely useless then."

I chuckle, the atmosphere lightening. "What are you going to do now? Go back to Morineaux?"

"Yes." He murmurs the country's name back to himself, as if thinking of a dear friend far away. His eyes clear. "Yes, I will go back to Morineaux, as soon as I can make the trip." His lips purse slightly as he considers something. He rummages through his cloak pockets for a minute. Dropping the fabric back in his lap, he runs a hand through his hair. "Of course Amarris would take the money." He shakes his head, dismissing the matter. "It will be fine. At least she left the important things."

"It looked like she was..." analyzing, inspecting, examining. Everything was pulled out only partially and carefully. It seemed precise, scientific almost. But I can't think of the words to convey this to him.

He leans forward. "Like she was what?"

I wave it away.

He falls back, disappointed. "Oh."

We sit there awkwardly for a moment until I stand. "It was nice meeting you." I offer him my hand. "Outside of the manor, I mean." I smile.

He returns a sincere smile. "It is nice to be outside of the manor. Thank you. Again."

We shake, and I move to leave. Pausing in the doorway, I say, "I am across the hall. If you need something."

His expression exudes the gentle warmth of a living room hearth. "In that case, I should see you soon. Hopefully," he adds, as if trying not to be presumptuous.

"Hopefully," I repeat, teasing, as I back out of the room. It's not until I close the door that I realize, technically, this is Sean's room.

Oh, well. Sean can move.