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  He lived, so barony rumour had it, in a small hut right at the Savage Crux.

  It was not done to build at crossroads, not in southern Fiellan. Inns and pubs and churches and villages alike were all built at least a furlong away from any crossroads, safe from the walking dead or the Dark Kings or the Gentry’s interest.

  The Wild Saint had been sent by the Lady to learn what a gift and a grace the world was, and at the Savage Crux of the Arguty Forest, it was said, he had found a man so injured he could not be moved at all.

  This being the first Finding, the man who would become the Wild Saint listened to the Lady’s words and worked to heal the injured man where he was. The man recovered, in a way quickly hailed as miraculous, and in return gave the Wild Saint a pot.

  He was a tinker, so he’d seemed; but the pot was enchanted, and no matter what was made in it, there was always enough for all who were there to eat from it.

  After the so-called tinker left, the Wild Saint was preparing to leave from the Savage Crux when a tree fell across one of the roads. He was perforce obliged to clear it, but he had no tools—no axe or saw—and so he built a fire to burn through the trunk.

  Long before he had been able to cut the tree in half, another traveller had come by, this one with a handaxe they left in return for the meal and directions and some unspecified advice.

  And so it went. Each time he might have continued, something happened: a gift was given, or needed to be given on.

  It was said that he was still working through the great oak, though the road was now cleared, and still living at the Savage Crux, the only person in the whole of southern Fiellan who dwelled at a crossroads.

  “So this,” the Wild Saint said out loud, “is Ballory.”

  I was startled out of my thoughts and looked again at the man in front of me. Ballory was regarding him with not quite as adoring an attitude as she showed to Mr. Dart, but with clear affection.

  It occurred to me, not for the first time, to wonder just how intelligent the unicorn foal was.

  Mr. Dart was regarding him with little less intrigue, if less outright pleasure. The Hunter in Green had his arms folded in a gesture of definite smugness. I decided to ignore him for the moment and, since no one else was saying anything in response, asked, “Were you expecting her?”

  The Wild Saint lifted his head from gazing down at Ballory to pierce me with striking blue eyes.

  “This is Jemis Greenwing, the Viscount St-Noire,” Roald said.

  The Wild Saint nodded, his eyes not leaving my face. “The son of Mad Jack Greenwing, recently come home out of durance vile. The son of the Lady Olive, a fine lady and a finer woman, friend to all. Yes, I know who you are, Mr. Greenwing.”

  I bowed to the saint, deeply as if for Hal.

  He laughed, richly and royally. “Yes, you have your parents’ blood in your veins,” he declared. “In answer to your question, young sir, all of us on the Lady’s side have been waiting this long age for the coming of a unicorn to the world. All the signs were pointing towards an imminent change: for that is what a unicorn portends, you know, here in Northwest Oriole. Change.”

  I nodded, but I refused to let the question go unanswered. The Hunter in Green (the Honourable Rag) had also known the name Ballory.

  “By name?” I persisted.

  The Wild Saint settled back on his heels, his hands sliding on the quarterstaff until he was completely and fully balanced for movement in any direction.

  I watched him but did not shift my own position. I was well enough balanced to respond to an attack if one proved forthcoming, but I could hardly see myself attacking a saint of the Lady. Now that I was looking at him I could see quite clearly that he had seen the Lady in truth. There was an air about him—something in the look in his eyes, perhaps—that was … not exactly fey … but …

  Perhaps the word I was looking for was holy.

  He said, “Who are you to ask?”

  The Lady’s voice was in my ear, that laughter that had caused all the trees in the Wood of Spiritual Refreshment to bloom, all the faces of the souls of the waiting dead to blossom. I smiled at the Wild Saint, certainty falling into my voice, my mind, my bones.

  “I died in sacrifice and came back to life by the Lady’s grace and the work of her Champion.” I put my hand on Mr. Dart’s shoulder, just above the knot of his sling. “I stand behind and beside him.”

  The Wild Saint started to laugh, a booming noise that echoed in the silent, still, grey trees. Somewhere not far away a jay cried out, answered by another. Grey jays, I noted, remembering another passage through the Arguty Forest, and the Whiskeyjack gang. They were not close, not yet, if the jay-calls were theirs.

  “Then I will tell you, young sir,” the Wild Saint said, “that if you truly want to know the answer to that question, you must follow your champion where he leads. We are nearly come to the Lady’s Day, the shortest day of the year, the longest night, when the world turns on its axis. Are you patient enough to await what comes?”

  Mr. Dart gave a short hitch of his shoulder, which I interpreted—possibly incorrectly, but I did know him quite well—as a request to say nothing further, so I merely stepped aside and bowed again to the Wild Saint.

  “Thank you for the lift, Lord St-Noire,” the Hunter in Green said, and I could hear the grin in his voice.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The rest of the journey to Dart Hall was uneventful.

  We climbed back inside, minus the orange kitten—which the Wild Saint had scooped up with apparent delight, kissed on the nose, and declared a gift of the Lady—which asseveration I did not in the least deny—and settled ourselves into our seats.

  “Any trouble?” Hope asked tentatively.

  “No, just the Wild Saint,” I replied. Jullanar Maebh sighed in extravagant disbelief and turned her head firmly to look out the window as we scrunched back onto the main highway and started off again.

  Despite a week in Mr. Dart’s and my company she had yet to reconcile herself to the mad adventures befalling us. Mind you, six months of them had not fully led me to reconciling myself with them, so I could not entirely blame her.

  We arrived at Dart Hall just as the grey was gradually becoming the deep, luminous blue of a snowy evening. The windows in the Hall were well-lit, and it looked greatly welcoming as we trundled up the long drive at a smart trot. I brushed my hand down my coat, wishing I had not lost my hat, and smiled encouragingly at Hope, who had expressed her concern at imposing on the Squire.

  Jullanar Maebh was very pale and still. She had braided her copper hair back tightly, so only a few tendrils framed her face. Mr. Dart patted her hand gently. “All will be well, cousin,” he said softly. “My brother is eager to meet you.”

  She jerked her head in barest acknowledgement. She had not been willing to share the impetus behind her mother’s pleas for sanctuary, nor explained why her mother had not accompanied her to meet us, except that it was not due to her death. I had been sufficiently preoccupied with my own affairs—not to mention the small fact that she disliked me—to have not pressed. It was mere inquisitiveness on my part; if it were more important than that, Mr. Dart would tell me.

  Someone in the house had clearly been looking out for us, for by the time Mr. Fancy drew the falarode up before the entry the great oaken doors had opened, and the Squire, Sir Hamish, and my own father had gathered at the top of the steps to meet us.

  Mr. Dart and I looked at each other, and then down at Ballory.

  “Why don’t you and Hope go first, Jemis?” Mr. Dart suggested.

  It was his family, so I nodded agreement and exited the carriage first. Mr. Cartwright had already moved around to the side to start handing the luggage down to some of the Hall servants, while Mr. Fancy remained perched on his seat like a large crow.

  I ensured the steps were locked into position and turned to hand Hope out of the carriage. She was dressed in a heavy wool cloak lined with fox fur, and looked with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity at the Hall and the men assembled to greet us.

  I glanced back in, but Mr. Dart was whispering to Jullanar Maebh, so I took Hope’s arm and led her up the stairs.

  “You’re back safely, then,” Sir Hamish said when no one said anything at first.

  “Yes,” I replied, smiling thankfully at him. “Master Dart, this is a friend of mine from Morrowlea, Hope Stornaway—the Ironwood heiress. She agreed to act as chaperone for Miss Dart, as it happened that … Mrs. Dart was unable to join us.”

  All three gave me a sharp look. I smiled back as guilelessly as I knew how, which wasn’t particularly. Hope gave a small, nervous curtsey. “I hope you don’t mind the imposition, M-master Dart.”

  The Squire started and then gave her a kind smile. “You are welcome, Miss Stornaway. I look forward to knowing you. Jemis’s friends from university have all been … most interesting.”

  Hope gave me a puzzled look. I grinned at her. “Hal, Violet, and Red Myrta.”

  Hope stifled a giggle, no doubt for that combination: Hal, the Imperial Duke of Fillering Pool; Violet, an Indrilline spy (albeit truthfully the Lady of Alinor’s daughter and loyal agent); and the daughter of Myrta the Hand, chief of a gang of brigands.

  The Squire grunted an acknowledgement, and managed not to stare longingly at the carriage for a moment longer.

  “This is Sir Hamish Lorkin,” I added to Hope, and then indicated my father. “And this is my father, Major Jack Greenwing.”

  “Sir Hamish. Major Greenwing.” Hope curtsied again as the two made short, polite bows in return. My father’s eyebrows had gone up, though I couldn’t imagine what there was in my polite phrasing to astonish him so.

  Hope and I shuffled over to stand next to my father. He set his hand on my shoulder
and gave me a quick, comforting squeeze. I felt for a moment as if my heart would overflow entirely.

  “There they are,” Master Dart said, eager as a boy, as the carriage door swung open again.

  Mr. Dart came out first, followed by Jullanar Maebh. She was still pale but it was less pronounced than earlier. Her cheeks flushed as she came up the steps, and her eyes skimmed anxiously over Sir Hamish, the Squire, and my father before settling on the Squire.

  There was no doubt they were related. Her hair was a brighter copper and far curlier, but her nose and the shape of her jaw and her eyes were all clearly derived from his side. She walked up beside Mr. Dart to stand uncertainly before her father.

  She curtsied, as politely and impersonally as Hope had not five minutes before. The Squire responded with a curt bow, then his face changed and he stepped forward, arms wide, expression suddenly beseeching.

  “May I?” he said, and at her tremulous nod embraced her.

  Beside me, Hope was sniffling back tears. I pulled out one of my store of clean handkerchiefs and offered it to her silently. She took it with a small smile, no doubt remembering my absurd collection of handkerchiefs from Morrowlea.

  Mr. Dart stood next to Sir Hamish, who put his hand on my friend’s shoulder in just the way my father had done for me. For the first time I did not feel a pang of envy for Mr. Dart. I smiled over my shoulder at my father on that thought, startling him again. My father smiled slowly, and his hand gripped me, just as if he understood exactly what I was feeling.

  The Squire released his daughter, and they stood back, teary-eyed and smiling brilliantly. All of Jullanar Maebh’s fears seemed to have fled, and Master Dart himself’s uncharacteristic bout of anxiety had passed.

  “Come inside, daughter,” he said, his voice warm and welcoming. “Come in and be welcome to your new home.”

  Inside, we doffed our various outer garments, stamped the small bits of snow acquired on the stretch of drive between carriage and stairs on the doormat, and were guided into the friendly morning room.

  I’d always felt Dart Hall to be a second home, far more welcoming than my uncle’s house. I had a bedroom here, where I kept a few books and a change of clothes. The morning room was my favourite of the daytime rooms: it was a snug space, the walls covered in wallpaper striped in pale blue and cream.

  Sir Hamish’s portraits of his parents and those of Mr. Dart and the Squire were the most prominent artwork, along with landscapes from their collection. I went to examine the portraits, seeking the Petronelle and Master Ricard I had met in the Wood of Spiritual Refreshment.

  These had been painted when they were older than in that life after death, but I could see the Petronelle I had met in the portrait’s eyes and mouth. I had seen that Master Ricard’s face had relaxed from stern lines; his frown was much more obvious in the painting.

  “You’ve never been so interested in those portraits before,” Sir Hamish said from beside me.

  “I met them,” I said without thinking.

  Sir Hamish gave me a penetrating, considering stare, as if he were looking not just with a painterly regard—something I had always found unexpectedly difficult to bear, for how naked it made me feel—but deep into my soul.

  For all that he was my father’s cousin and my dear friend’s honorary father, I had never truly talked with Sir Hamish. I had always felt uncomfortable with him, able to feel how my social status was slipping, unable to tune out my uncle’s and his wife’s dripping poison enough to believe that Sir Hamish would himself ignore the slander against my father’s name.

  I shivered. There had been a holy light in the Wild Saint’s eyes. Was there something … fey … about me, now that I had visited the Lady’s country and come back myself?

  “Something happened,” Sir Hamish said quietly. Behind us, I could hear a murmur of voices as Master Dart introduced my father to Jullanar Maebh and they made all the proper greetings to each other.

  “Yes.”

  He held my eyes a few moments longer. I looked back steadily. Was it three days since I had come back from the Lady’s Country? Four? Already the subtle inward changes were settling into normality. It was hard to remember why I had been so anxious and doubting of Sir Hamish’s opinion. Looking at him now I was absolutely certain that he cared deeply for me.

  How many people had I pushed away in my fear of being rejected by them?

  Was it magic or simply my own too-cautious nature that had done so?

  How insidious had been that curse?

  “I met a woman once who had witnessed a miracle,” Sir Hamish said, even more quietly. “What lay lightly on her is shining in your eyes.”

  “I died,” I said quietly, but not quietly enough, for everyone else had stopped talking and my words fell straight into that silence.

  The explanations were complicated, to say the least.

  Before we’d even finished describing crossing the Arguty Forest on the way to Orio City, my father was trying valiantly not to laugh. The account of how Moo the highwayman from Nibbler’s gang had dumped half a dozen kittens on us made him screw up his face in the effort to keep his composure.

  “I see you still have one of the kittens,” he observed. The second grey—now the only grey one—appeared to have adopted me, and was currently investigating the corners of the room, whereas the tabby was—

  I frowned at Mr. Dart. “Where’s Ballory?”

  Mr. Dart was sitting on a chair between the settee where Jullanar Maebh and Hope sat and the fireplace. There was a distinct lack of unicorn foal, however.

  “You named one of the kittens Ballory?” my father said, giving up on the struggle and letting himself laugh freely instead.

  I glanced at Mr. Dart, who gave me a blandly challenging expression.

  “Why does everyone except me know that name?” I asked in exasperation.

  “How do you not know it?” Sir Hamish said. “It’s the name of Sir Peregrine’s unicorn!”

  “He was an ancestor of ours, you know,” Master Dart said to Jullanar Maebh, his voice rounding with pride. “Perry here is named after him.”

  Jullanar Maebh, Hope, and I all swivelled to stare at Mr. Dart. I’d already heard some of this from the Lady in the Wood of Spiritual Refreshment, but it had gone out of my head like the details of a dream in all the hurly-burly of the subsequent events.

  “I thought we could leave Ballory until a bit later in the story,” Mr. Dart said. “As there are some important matters to discuss first.”

  “Yes,” Sir Hamish said, “like why exactly Jemis said he died.”

  “He’s not allowed to explain,” Mr. Dart said firmly. “He’s disturbingly glib about the whole thing.”

  “I came back.”

  “That doesn’t make it any better, Mr. Greenwing.”

  Jullanar Maebh suddenly sat forward, folded her hands tightly together on her lap, and stared intently at her father. “May I? I am not certain I can take their—their whiffle!”

  “My son does have the gift of talk,” my father murmured. He was standing next to me, his hand on my shoulder when he wasn’t overcome with laughter. He squeezed my shoulder again; I was once again struck by how comforting it was. “Please, Miss Dart.”

  “I was waiting for you to meet me in Orio City,” Jullanar Maebh said, her eyes on the Squire. “I met these two the night before, in a student pub.”

  “Oh, Perry,” the Squire sighed. “Must you?”

  Mr. Dart shrugged, unrepentant. “We met Jack Lindsary, and Jemis very valiantly refrained from punching him.”

  “He’s got a new play coming out this Winterturn,” I said, remembering anew. It felt so very removed. “About the dragon, apparently.”

  “Excellent,” Sir Hamish said. “I’ve been making notes to what you might do about it, Jack.”

  “Even more splendid,” my father said. “Do continue, Miss Dart.”