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.