Stiet did not allow my father to hold the map he was showing him; he kept possession of it, merely pointing at the part he wished my father to study. My father glanced at it with polite interest, then turned aside with a vague scowl. “I’ve told you three times, I don’t know what that is. If you are so keen to know, ask Nevare. You say that he drew it.”

“He did draw it! But I cannot ask your son. You sent him away. Do not you remember that you did that? You spent most of yesterday weeping over it!” Stiet flung himself back suddenly in his chair. “Oh, you are useless!” he exploded. “The smallest, simplest bit of information stands between me and a fortune. And no one has it.”

Frustration vied with cruelty in the man’s words. My father’s face crumpled, as if he’d been dealt a blow to the stomach. His mouth worked, trembled, and then with an effort he firmed his jaw. Seeing my father weakened and uncertain and treated so abusively by a man who was taking full advantage of my family’s hospitality washed away the final dregs of my anger and resentment toward my father. Stiet’s callous mockery of him made me furious. I danced around my father, sealing him off from Stiet’s cruel words. I danced strength of will and pride for him. “Tell him to leave you alone! Tell him to ask Sergeant Duril. Duril will know what my scribble meant.”

My father drew himself up taller in his chair. “Ask Sergeant Duril. He knows the boy best; he’s been as much a father to him as I have. He’ll recognize what Nevare’s scribble means.”

Stiet clenched his jaw. Nervously, he refolded the map, smoothing the creases ever deeper. “But can we trust him?” he demanded of my father. “I’ve told you, there is a fortune at stake here. And I do not know if we can wait until he returns from Gettys. Spring grows stronger every day. At any time now, someone else may find the place we seek and claim it for his own. And all, all will be for naught. Why did you have to send the sergeant away?”

My father folded his knobby hands on his blanketed knees. His gaze seemed clearer as he stared at Stiet. “Why, to help my niece Epiny. Yaril had word from her; the winter has been quite harsh at Gettys, with skirmishes with the Speck. Duril set out with the high-wheeled cart full of supplies. He’ll look into what has become of Nevare as well. Seems there’s reason to believe the boy made it that far east and enlisted at the fort there. Plucky lad. Can’t keep a Burvelle down for long.”

“Plucky lad? You disowned him! He’d become fat as a pig. He was kicked out of the Academy, came home in disgrace, and you disowned him!” With difficulty, Stiet calmed himself. He took a breath and leaned toward my father, speaking as if with sympathy for a poor old man. “He’s gone, Lord Burvelle. Your last living son is gone. It’s a shame he disappointed you so, but he’s gone. All your sons are gone. Your last best hope is for your daughter to marry well, stay here, and take care of you. My adopted son is a good match for her; he’s from a good family. Unfortunately, I have little fortune to leave to him. But if only we could establish where the mineral sample came from, I feel it would be of interest to certain other geologists. I could provide handsomely for the boy then. And he in turn could provide for your daughter. It could do us all a good turn.”

“I want to see the rock.” My father spoke with sudden strength. “I want to know what is so unique about it. Let me see the rock.”

“I told you before, sir. It has been misplaced. I cannot show it to you. You must take my word for it that it shows a most uncommon mix of elements. It will be of great interest to those who study geology, but likely laymen will only find it boring. Scholars of the origins of the earth will be intrigued if they can view its place of origin.”

As I danced, I shook my head. The man was lying. He had no scholarly interest in that stone. There was something else about that rock, something of monetary value. I was sure of it, though I did not know enough geology to say what it might be. Then, unnervingly, my father’s eyes met mine. He did not stare through me; he seemed to really see me. In response to the shaking of my head, he slowly shook his own. “No,” he said, and swung his gaze to Stiet. “No. You are not telling me the full story. And even when Sergeant Duril returns, he will not help you. Not until you are honest with us. And if my son lives”—his voice grew stronger—“if my son lives, he will come home. Don’t dangle that pale little boy before me like bait. He’s barely out of short trousers, and my daughter has told me she does not wish to marry so young. She’ll tell you so herself.” He lifted his voice suddenly. “Yaril! Yaril, I want you!” And for a moment he sounded like the father I recalled from my youth rather than the man crazed by my failure at the Academy and broken by the grief of his plague losses.

I heard the sound of a chair pushed back, and then the hurrying patter of Yaril’s feet down the corridor. “Never mind, never mind,” Stiet was saying hastily. “Send her away; you’ve no need of her. Don’t make yourself upset. I only asked a simple question.”

“I need her,” the old man replied testily. Again, he looked directly at me, and I would have sworn he could see me. “I need her to do the things that I cannot do. The things I no longer have the strength to do for myself.” He kept his gaze on my face as he spoke, and I had the strangest sensation of an interchange between us, as if the magic I had infected him with was now returning to me. I felt more whole for it coming back to me, and I could almost see it leaving my father and allowing him to become more himself again. How much magic had I spread, and to how many people? I knew that it had touched Epiny strongly, and Spink. Carsina, it had forced to come to me after her death, to beg my forgiveness. Yaril? I’d touched Caulder with it, when I turned him back on the bridge. Who else? How many? A part of me wished to feel guilt over what I had done. Another part effortlessly recognized that it was not me, but the magic that had acted so. It would not accept or tolerate the guilt.

The dancing of my distant body intruded again in my thoughts. Kinrove knew how to express the magic only as dance, and at his bidding, at his summons, I danced. How had I expressed the magic? I suddenly wondered, and then speculated that perhaps words had been my strongest manifestation of it. The journal, the hastily sketched map, even the letters that had flown between Carsina and Yaril and Epiny and myself. I felt something in the distant physicality. Water flowing down my back. Feeders were pouring cooling water over me. I felt it trickle and flow. Somewhere, I thirsted. I did not stop dancing, but opened my mouth and someone trickled water into it. Olikea? Perhaps.

But I could not think of her now, could not think of anything except stitching up the holes in my magical tasks. All that my separate halves could not accomplish was coming together for me. It takes two hands to weave, and that was what I was doing.

When Yaril entered the room, I knew what I had to do. A furrow creased her brow and she suddenly clasped herself in an embrace. “Is there a draft in here?” she demanded, and then hurried about the room, drawing curtains and checking to be sure that the casement windows were securely closed and latched. That done, she hurried up to my father, her skirts rustling and her feet tapping on the floor. Those simple sounds, so often ignored, suddenly seemed a part of the music and I danced with her. Her words seemed a song when she said, “Here I am, Father. What did you need?”

“I need an answer!” Abruptly my father slapped his palm against his leg, as if somehow Yaril had been deceiving him and he was upbraiding her for it.

It broke my heart to see the quiver that passed through her. But she drew herself up straight and met his gaze. “An answer to what question, Father?” she asked him. Her voice was grave, without impertinence. I saw how she used her own demeanor to recall him to his.