All of this may explain why Dorr seldom spoke, why she made the quilts she did, and why she passively submitted to her grandfather's will… but I'm suspicious of glib hindsight analysis. It was too easy to say Dorr had slipped helplessly into her mad mother's shoes. Dorr was not buffeted by irresistible winds in her mind; she just liked the role of someone shadowed by insanity. It shielded her. It excused her from small talk, and from her Great-Aunt Veen dropping hints that she wasn't getting any younger. When Dorr's baby by Master Crow died in a four-month miscarriage, Tober Cove accepted the death as the sort of bad luck that happened to Dorr.

(Cappie actually slapped me when I whispered Dorr might have tried a sip of the plant dyes too. Tobers aren't supposed to know there are vegetable extracts which can spill a fetus out of the womb before its time.)

With all these thoughts running through my head, I found myself staring at Dorr more intently than I intended… and suddenly she turned, meeting my gaze with hers. She studied me for a moment, as if debating whether to break her silence and ask that most female of questions, "What are you thinking?" I saw no madness under that mad hair — simply a woman of deep and silent privacy, in the world, but not of it. Her lips parted and she took a breath to speak; but at that moment, a cough sounded across the room and Hakoore shuffled in through the doorway.

"What now?" he snapped.

I had broken eye contact with Dorr the moment I heard Hakoore coming, but I still felt as if I'd been caught in some guilty act. "Bonnakkut's dead," I blurted. "Murdered."

The fingers of Dorr's free hand brushed lightly across my wrist. It seemed more like a caress than a gesture of shock at the news. "Will you take possession of the body?" I asked Hakoore.

"Bonnakkut?" the old man said, with a tone so sharp he obviously thought I was lying. "Bonnakkut's been murdered?"

"I'm afraid so," Rashid answered. "On a trail through the woods out…" He waved his hand in the direction of Zephram's house.

"Who murdered him?" Hakoore asked.

"We don't know," Rashid said.

Hakoore looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Where was that Bozzle of yours?"

"With my father," I said immediately. I don't know if I was defending Steck because she was my mother or because I was her son.

"With your father," Hakoore repeated. "With her old…" He hissed in disgust. "Are there any devils left in hell, or have they all come to Tober Cove today?

Rashid looked to me as if he expected an explanation of what the old snake meant. I ignored him. "You should take possession of the body now," I told Hakoore. "It's already attracting insects."

"Hmph." Hakoore was obligated to collect the body as soon as possible, and he didn't like it. Our Patriarch's Man preferred to make other people dance to his tune; he had a reputation for hating deaths and births, because they came at odd hours and forced him into someone else's schedule. "Has the doctor looked at the body?" he asked.

"She says the man is dead," Rashid answered dryly. "Her interest doesn't extend further."

"Hmph," Hakoore said again. He must have hoped to gain a few minutes by sending for Gorallin. "All right. If it has to be done. Woman!" he growled at Dorr. "Let go of that fool boy and get the stretcher. Wait, wait, where's my bag?"

Dorr pointed. The Patriarch's Satchel, containing unguents and totems used in last rites, hung on the back of the front door. I'd seen it hanging there every time I visited the house — Hakoore must have known exactly where it was and just wanted to shout at someone who wasn't a Spark Lord.

While the old snake busied himself taking the bag off its hook, Dorr went for the stretcher… but she didn't let go of my hand. Rather than make a scene trying to detach myself in front of the Knowledge-Lord, I went along with her: down the cellar steps and into the basement, where the smell of dyes increased to vinegar proportions.

Since there were small glass windows high up one wall, we didn't need a candle for light. Still, the large cellar workroom had an earthy dimness to it, with piles of shadow heaped up in clots wherever the sun didn't reach through the windows. It struck me that maybe this faint darkness wasn't the best place to have a witchy older woman clinging deliberately to my arm.

"Fullin," she whispered.

Uh-oh.

"The stretcher is over here," she finished.

She guided me to the gloomiest corner of the room, where the stretcher was propped against the wall. It was nothing fancy, just ordinary sail canvas slung between two carrying poles. Dorr gestured toward it and released my hand so I could carry it; she didn't offer to help. I bundled up the load and hefted it off the floor, wishing the poles weren't quite so heavy. Of course they had to be good stout wood, to bear the weight of the cove's plumpest citizens without breaking. Still, the whole package made an awkward armload that took several readjustments before I finally had it under control.

That's when Dorr kissed me. Soft hands clutching my shoulders, then lips pressed against mine and her tongue slipping briefly inside before she stepped back a pace.

"Dorr, don't," I said in a low voice.

"Wasn't that what you were expecting?" she whispered. "What you thought I was going to do?"

"Well… yes."

"You thought I'd kiss you, so I did," she said. "Heaven forbid you could ever be mistaken in reading a person."

"I was that obvious?"

"You're always obvious," Dorr answered. "That's why you're interesting."

Not the kind of interest I ever wanted to provoke. "We should take the stretcher upstairs," I said.

She slipped back to give me room and motioned toward the steps. "Go ahead."

I adjusted my load again and moved forward. As I passed her, she darted forward again: hands, lips, tongue. It was over in the blink of an eye, and Dorr eased away with a triumphant look on her face. "The first kiss was yours," she said. "The second was mine."

The parents playing Catch in the street knew what it meant when the Patriarch's Man walked through town with his stretcher. They fell silent and still, even as their children called, "Throw the ball! Throw the ball!" People looked at me or Dorr, their eyes asking, "Who?" No one had the nerve to speak the question out loud: no one until we passed the house of Vaygon the Seedster, and his wife Veen planted herself in front of us with the air of a woman who won't budge until she gets an answer.

Veen was Hakoore's older sister; or rather she had been his older sister when Hakoore was a runny-nosed boy, and his older brother when Hakoore was an idolizing little girl. If anyone in the village was unimpressed with Hakoore's hissing snake act, it was Veen.

"Last rites?" she asked loudly. She had a surprisingly deep voice for a woman, even though old age had shrunk her body like moss drying on a rock. "Who's dead, Hakoore?"

With any other woman, the Patriarch's Man might have snapped, "No concern of yours!" A pity for him that wouldn't work with his sister; she'd be completely comfortable raising a scene, a harangue that would be recounted and inflated by gossip for weeks to come. "Bonnakkut," Hakoore told her in a low voice, though he must have known that whispering wouldn't keep the secret.

"Bonnakkut!" Veen repeated, as naturally loud as thunder. At least four other people were standing close enough to hear, all of them wearing "I'd never eavesdrop" expressions that didn't fool anybody. Within fifteen minutes, the whole town would know the news.

"What did the fool boy do?" Veen asked. "Shoot himself with that gun?"