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Silhouine

Dulap and his gunny are gone by noon.

Silhouine, ashamed of herself, pokes through the front room: trinkets and baubles, mostly. Gewgaws. Mlle. Sunanza sold junk to the gullible and information to the incognito rich, but neither magic nor connections can be stuffed in a sack.

“Beds and fresh linen in the back,” says Yael. “Come on. You need some sleep.”

Silhouine fingers a pewter key, pockets it, sighs and obeys.

She wakes with a sack on her head, jouncing along saddle-hung on a humpbacked donkey.

“I deeply regret making your acquaintance,” grumbles Yael, nearby.

“So do I,” says Silhouine.

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