"They needed her dead. That's what they said. They wanted her 'cause she wasn't all damaged and dark, like me." Bitter, bitter words. "I wanted her to die. She's never had a hard life-" So unlike the words she'd spoken to Haval, and yet, they were also just as true; Jewel could hear it. Duster was never going to be simple. "But I wanted them to suffer more. That's it. That's the only reason."

Before she could think, Jewel said, "That's not the only reason."

Duster flinched. Started to speak. Stopped. In the cold, breath like a whirling cloud all around them, she stared at Jewel Markess. Jewel stared back.

"It's the only reason," she said again. But the words were thinner. "It's-the only reason that matters."

"What's the other one?"

Whispered words. But Duster surprised Jewel. She answered. "She was the only good thing I did there. The only thing I-the only right thing. They never guessed I could do it. They never guessed someone as fallen as me could do anything good. But-if I only ever do one good thing-she's alive. She's not me. She can do the rest. And she can do whatever good-" she said the word without her usual sneer, "only because of me."

Jewel understood, then. Why Duster had looked so angry when she had laid eyes on Finch.

"That has to count for something, right? In Mandaros' Halls, that has to count for something."

"It counts," Jewel said softly. "And with more than just Mandaros. He won't care until you're dead."

She fell silent, and the mists parted slowly around their faces.

Duster said, "I killed my uncle."

And Jewel, to her own surprise, said, "He probably deserved it." And meant it.

"That's it?"

"What's it?"

"That's all you're going to say?"

"I know that the Patris deserves death," Jewel replied quietly. "All of them. I don't see why your uncle was different; if you killed him, you had your reasons."

Duster just stared at her, hand on her dagger, her eyes wide, dark eyes. Animal eyes.

"We have to get back."

"I don't know if I can stay. With you. With them."

"You can. But not if you don't want to."

They started to walk again, two girls in dresses that were too fine, in a Winter world where anything was possible, and ice of all kinds was both deadly and thin.

Teller made a place for himself in the kitchen, at Finch's side. Jewel should have been surprised, but she wasn't; he had probably done the same thing at home, and finding something familiar in the midst of all that was strange just made sense. Lefty was with them, both hands by his sides; he spoke with his hands and with his voice, alternating between them, depending on whether or not they were looking. Jewel stood in the hall that was only inches away from the kitchen's frame, looking in at their world.

It was a warm one, with fire in the woodstove and bodies radiating heat. Duster, to no one's surprise, avoided kitchen duties with a sullen pa.s.sion. Carver avoided them adroitly, and Arann did the heavy lifting-the wood, for instance. But Finch directed when Jewel wasn't there, and Jewel was content to let her be.

When Jewel's family had been alive, the kitchen had been their gathering room, the place at which all discussions of import were held. Her Oma would sit in the corner, smoking, which irritated her mother; her mother would cook and clean while her Oma would hold forth with gossip-she called it information-and the stories that Jewel so loved. Her father would help here and there, but he said two women in one kitchen was one woman too many, and his mother had affectionately called him a coward.

Jewel shared some of that cowardice, and some of that affection, watching her den-kin work. And they were her den; she accepted that now. They didn't have to steal-not yet-to live and eat. Later would be later; for now there were pockets of safety, of things that were familiar.

When Finch looked up from her work, she paused, glancing at what they were wearing. But she didn't ask where they'd gone; she said only that they must be hungry. The last was a question. Jewel's stomach answered. Like a little mother, her Finch. Like her own mother might have been when she had been ten.

"Where are the boys?"

"Carver and Arann are trying to beat the c.r.a.p out of each other," Lefty said cheerfully. "They call it training." The cheer wavered when Duster stepped into the kitchen, and the hand that had been flying in mute conversation now returned to his armpit; his spine bowed and his head sank inward, as if he expected to be hit.

With Lefty, words and blows were kindred spirits.

It was this meekness, this obvious fear, that so goaded Duster. Jewel knew it, and knew also that Lefty was incapable of being anything else.

Duster did sneer. That, too, was a part of Duster, and it wouldn't change any time soon. But she curbed her tongue and said instead, "Sounds like fun. Maybe I'll join them." She paused. "Can I lay bets?"

"You've got money to bet with?"

Duster shrugged. "Some."

"No."

She laughed, then, and it was almost genuine. Surprising in its burst of warmth. Jewel felt fear, not of the laughter, but of losing it; she wanted to hold it, cling to it, nail it down. But she let it go, because if Duster was to be here, to be hers, she would have to accept Duster.

Duster walked down the hall, and Lefty slowly unfolded. "She's in a good mood," he said hesitantly. Even hopefully. It hurt Jewel, to hear the fear and the uncertainty. But she nodded.

Only Teller was silent, his face drawn. "I'm not a good cook," he began.

Finch hit his arm with her little fist. "He's not a bad one."

"The rest of us suck," Jewel told him cheerfully. "Not good is better than very bad."

"Mostly, we don't," Lefty added. "Cook, I mean."

Teller nodded. "Wood is expensive." They all looked toward the stove.

"Rath can afford it, for now."

"And now is all we have," Finch said, in mimicry of Jewel's voice.

"You've been spending too much time with Jester," Jewel told her, laughing.

"He's silly," Finch replied, her expression grave. "And I don't know how he can be after-" She shook her head. "But I like him."

"Good. We're all going to be living together for a long time; we might as well like each other if we can manage it."

Finch nodded. "We'll eat in the room?" she asked, looking dubiously at the kitchen table. They could crowd around it in theory, but not unless they were sitting in each other's laps.

"Sounds good. I'll go and get what's left of Carver and Arann."

"Rath said they should practice," Finch told her.

"Sounds like Rath. We should eat. We have lessons in the afternoon."

Teller perked up a bit. "Lessons?"

"Reading, sort of. It's mostly just learning the letters," she added. "But I bought another slate or two; we can share for now."

"Torra?"

She shook her head. That was the language of the street, for too many people. "Weston."

He nodded again. His eyes were bright, too bright, and she knew he was thinking of his mother. Would think of her often, in this place. But so did Jewel. Nothing wrong with that.

"Carver's good," Duster said, when they had finished eating. She spoke quietly, and only to Jewel, although everyone in the room could hear what she said. People tip-toed around Duster. Wasn't the smartest thing to do, but it would change. She hoped.

"Good how?"

"He knows how to handle himself. I'd have trouble taking him down."

"And Arann?"

"He's big and he's slow," Duster replied. "And he's afraid of hurting anyone." She said it dismissively.

"He'll defend what he feels needs defending," Jewel told her.

"He'll do that, yes. But only that."

"Not asking him for more."

"No. You wouldn't." The words were sharp. They were meant as a criticism. But they had enough truth in them that they couldn't sting. "Not much of a den," Duster added. "You've got two of us, two and a half if you really count Arann. I think Fisher's got the right build to fight, but he just sits back and watches. Jester couldn't fight a mouse. Lefty-" she bit back the words, although the contempt in the name was d.a.m.ning anyway.

"And the others, Finch and Teller. They won't be worth much in a fight."

"Neither will I."

Duster looked at her dubiously. "If you say so."

"We're not that kind of a den," Jewel said quietly.

"I know. I just don't know what kind of den you are. And I know what's out there," she added, nodding up in the direction of the street beyond the walls. "We're not going to carve out much of a territory the way we are now."

"We're not carving that kind of territory."

"You said you wanted to protect your own," Duster said, facing her squarely. "How are you going to do that if you can't stake a claim and hold it?"

"I'll figure it out. We've got other things to worry about first."

At that, Duster was satisfied, or mollified. She nodded. The dresses were gone; they once again wore the loose pants and tunics that best suited them. They were heavy wool, and Jewel found they chafed at her neck, but they were at least warm.

Jewel rose and took out a stack of heavy slates, and these she pa.s.sed around. Duster glared at them. "You have to learn, too," Jewel told her quietly. It wasn't a command. It was not, however, a request.

"And what in the h.e.l.ls am I going to do with this?"

"G.o.ds know," Jewel said crisply. "But you'll find something. Hopefully, something legal."

There was a lot of silence around Jewel and Duster as Duster stared at the slate. People waited.

"We're not going to stay in this holding forever," Jewel told Duster, aware that she was speaking to them all. "We're not going to be poor forever. If we have to steal to eat, fine, we'll steal-but there are other ways to make a living, and we're not going to have even a chance at those if we can't master a few crooked lines.

"We need to do this. We're going to do this."

Duster took the slate and said, "Only until I'm finished what I need to do."

"All we have is-"

"Now. Yeah, I heard you. d.a.m.n your now." But she didn't rise, she didn't stalk out. It was a start, and a better start than Jewel had hoped for.

Two days pa.s.sed in this fashion. Teller was still silent, but he spoke to Finch and Lefty, and he struggled to memorize letters with a hunger that Jewel dimly remembered as her own. There was a world that words opened, if you could read them. Not a world of money, not a world of opportunity-a different world. A different place.

He asked her questions. About the letters, about the forms, about where they came from. In the end, she borrowed some of Rath's books-his prized books-and she opened them for Teller. He stared at the pages with a mixture of dismay and open hunger.

"This is a book about the history of the Blood Barons," she told him quietly. "It's grim. But it ends with the story of Veralaan and the Twin Kings-the first Kings-so it's not all bad."

"You can read this?"

"With Rath's help. The language is kind of strange. People talked differently then, I guess."

"I recognize these ones," he said, pointing out letter shapes. His smile was bright and open; a studied contrast to Duster's. She nodded, because he actually did. He was fascinated by the pages, by the texture of the paper, by the binding of the book itself, by its obvious age.

But when he closed it, he turned to her and said, "I talked with Finch and Jester."

She frowned.

"They're worried about you."

"Are they?"

He nodded. "What are you going to do?"

It caught her by surprise, and Jewel wasn't good at surprises. "Do?"

"You went out with Rath in those dresses, you came back, Rath shut himself in his room."

"Oh, that. He always does that."

"He left again." Which was obvious, or they wouldn't be in his room, in front of his books.

He stared at her, and she felt the weight of his observation pinning her down. In the quiet corner of this room, book in her lap, she struggled with lies, and gave up on them.

"Duster was-"

"Finch told me." He spared her the words themselves, and she was grateful for it.