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e could think of, even the potty-mouth words children throw at each other in the dust of the play yard. And as long as no one suspected, she supposed she would keep on. Susan, by the stream in the willow grove: She says, “Aye, lovely, just so, it’s a good girl y’are,” then everything’s pink. ”But did she really have a bird in the hand? Did any of them? Would Farson keep his promises—promises made by a man named Latig

but she had handed the grimy scrap of paper back. This time there was no kicked-out leg and planted heel, no hat swept over a comically solemn bow; this time the gaze he gave her was steady and serious and disquietingly adult. “ ’Tisn’t sorcery, Susan daughter of Patrick; only trailcraft. Tonight he was wearing his duster, and his breath smoked faintly as he bent over his cards.