Myril’s place was on the soothsayers’ street, halfway up the hill from the old bridge in the middle of the city. Darna hoped that Myril would dye her hair again, not that dye would disguise her for long at the temple, where everyone knew her. She would be stuck like a bug on a pin, just waiting for them to find her, and in the meantime, she’d go mad with waiting to be killed. She cursed Calar as a fool, but then, her father had been a fool too. He’d been too charitable to his blood relations. Maybe Calar was simply trying to avoid making that mistake.
Soon, they climbed the narrow stair to Myril’s always-welcoming room, with its bundles of herbs drying on the rafters and its jars of potions on clean and carefully tended shelves. An old farmer passed them on the stair, clutching his bag of
