For most of the moon-round, Myril trudged back and forth between the temple and her room, tending Thorat’s wounds and Darna’s. She scarcely had time to visit her old guild hall, and no more messengers came from it. The waters did not breach the temple walls except to fill the baths beneath the gardens, not to mention the laundries and half of the treasuries. No one knew what had happened to the mysterious launderers. They’d disappeared, as if they’d risen with the smoke, leaving nothing behind except for a few baskets floating on the tide and a vat of soap by the temple gates, as if to tell the priestesses to wash their own linens, which they did but not very well. Whether the launderers went to the hills or took to the sea, Myril never knew.
The harbor was quiet. It usually was, just aft
