The temple attendant who woke him was a tall woman with curly black hair like springs that framed her face and deep, kind eyes. She leaned over the bed, shaking him gently awake.

  Her Temple robes were simple, an off-white like cream, with stripes of varying colors trimming the hems and sleeves. Each stripe was adorned with the emblazoning of one of the gods—a detail Dalliance had always liked. The effect was like a subtle rainbow. "Well," said the healer, "you had a pretty big day yesterday."

  He nodded weakly, "You could say that."

  "I hear young Sterling owes you a great deal."

  He shifted uncomfortably, swallowing. He felt slow, out of breath, like his mouth was full of toffee, and he couldn’t quite open his eyes all the way. "What happened?" he asked, instead of answering her.

  He wasn’t proud of saving Sterling. For one thing, his armsmen had been right there, and if they’d had to save him, they would have. He wasn’t in any real danger. But his peril, in that moment, had been an opportunity to perform. And Dalliance had seen it, and had seized it. He wasn’t sure if he was really happy with himself for that. Certainly, he had done it partially for the accolades. At the very least, he wanted Sterling indebted to him because it would be useful. He wondered if that made him a bad person, doing the right thing for a selfish reason.

  "You were poisoned," she said. Well, obviously.

  This was taking forever, Dalliance realized. He didn’t know when he’d gotten used to using [Prediction] so casually, but this felt like having the slowest conversation in the world.

  One level away. He even had three points banked. Just one more level of Wit, and his build would be as good as it was going to get—or as good as he could afford to wait for it to get. There would be nothing wrong with stacking Charm, or even Agility, but something told him he didn’t have the time.

  The attendant puttered around the overly spacious room, dusting with a feathered duster, refilling his pitcher from a bucket on her cart, and fluffing his pillows. He wondered why they’d given him such a large room. He wondered if she knew where Whimsy was.

  Nothing ventured . . . .

  He turned on [Prediction]. Maybe Charity couldn’t find out anything yesterday, but Charity could only hear what people wanted to say.

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  "My sister," he said, "took sanctuary here. P-probably last night." His voice broke on the P of "probably," stuttering. He felt so weak. Why did he feel so weak?

  She considered telling him that if someone were being hidden by the Temple, that would preclude the Temple from bringing it up to people. She considered telling him that the sanctity of sanctuary was a holy rite, but corrected herself at the last second, because she didn't know to which god it might be holy. She almost simply told him he was being inappropriate, but eventually decided it was best if she concluded their business in silence.

  Dalliance allowed the awkward silence to stretch for a second before speaking. "Aren’t you allowed to tell her someone is looking for her?" he asked.

  "I don’t know what you mean," she said, with immediate, practiced smoothness. No hesitation at all.

  This made it really difficult to understand the other thing that she barely prevented herself from saying.

  ‘Of course we did. That’s the first thing we did,’ snapped one of her alternative-selves.

  She was here. They had told her he was looking for her, and she hadn't visited him. And then he realized.

  "How long was I unconscious?"

  "This," she told him, "will be your third day here, though you were awake part of yesterday." She’d visited the first night, then.

  “Why did my healing take so long?" he asked, bewildered. Circe and Missus Mallow had made it seem almost trivial, to heal someone.

  She rolled her eyes. "Has it escaped your attention that you are hardly the only one from your class in need of attention?"

  And as a matter of fact, he realized, it had. "My apologies," he said. More important to get us all alive than to get me alone to perfect health.

  She looked only a little mollified, but he pressed onward. "I'm sorry. I have more questions, less accusatory, I promise: when people claim sanctuary here, where do they go?"

  The novice quarters, obviously, she managed not to say.

  "And can someone hire a delivery to the novices?" he asked immediately. "If I were to send a runner, could he take them a letter?"

  "Hasn’t anyone told you," she snapped, "that using skills on someone is rude?"

  Hard eyes, she had now. Like flints.

  "She’s my sister.” He sounded more vulnerable than he would have liked.

  Stony eyes weighed him for a long moment before nodding. "I suppose if it’s come down to that, I will carry your letter for you. Write quickly, if you would. I haven’t all day."

  Upon further prodding, though with a sour face, she even provided stationery.