"Is it that noticeable?" I asked her testily.

She nodded at me affably. "I woke up once and thought you'd just left me here. I wasn't worried about it, though. I knew you couldn't find them without me." She rubbed her eyes, and then looked at me more critically. "What happened to your beard?"

"I tried to trim it. Without much success."

She nodded in agreement. "But it was a good idea," she said comfortingly. "It might make you look a bit less wild. And it might prevent Creece or Tassin or anyone else from our caravan from recognizing you. Here. I'll help you. Go sit on that chair. Oh, and open the shutters, let some light in here."

I did as she suggested, without much enthusiasm. She arose from the bed, stretched, and rubbed her eyes. She took a few moments to splash some water on her face, then worried her own hair back into order and fastened it with a couple of small combs. She belted the tunic to give it a shape, then slipped on her boots and laced them up. In a remarkably short time she was presentable. Then she came to me, and taking hold of my chin turned my face back and forth in the light with no shyness at all: I could not be as nonchalant as she was.

"Do you always blush so easily?" she asked me with a laugh. "It's rare to see a Buck man able to flush so red. I suppose your mother must have been fair-skinned."

I could think of nothing to say to that, so I sat silently as she rummaged in her pack and came up with a small pair of shears. She worked quickly and deftly. "I used to cut my brothers' hair," she told me as she worked. "And my father's hair and beard, after my mother died. You've a nice shape to your jaw, under all this brush. What have you been doing with it, just letting it grow out any way it pleased?"

"I suppose," I muttered nervously. The scissors were flashing away right under my nose. She paused and brushed briskly at my face. A substantial amount of curly black hair fell to the floor. "I don't want my scar to be visible," I warned her.

"It won't," she said calmly. "But you will have lips and a mouth instead of a gap in your mustache. Tilt your chin up. There. Do you have a shaving blade?"

"Only my knife," I admitted nervously.

"We'll make do then," she said comfortingly. She walked to the door, flung it open, and used the power of a minstrel's lungs to bellow for the serving boy to bring her hot water. And tea. And bread and some rashers of bacon. When she came back into the room, she cocked her head and looked at me critically. "Let's cut your hair, too," she proposed. "Take it down."

I moved too slowly to satisfy her. She stepped behind me, tugged off my kerchief, and freed my hair from the leather thong. Unbound, it fell to my shoulders. She took up her comb and curried my hair roughly forward. "Let's see," she muttered as I gritted my teeth to her rough combing.

"What do you propose?" I asked her, but hanks of hair were already falling to the floor. Whatever she had decided was rapidly becoming a reality. She pulled hair forward over my face, then cut it off square above my eyebrows, tugged her comb through the rest of it a few times, then cut it off at jaw length. "Now," she told me, "you look a bit more like Farrow merchant stock. Before you were obviously a Buckman. Your coloring is still Buck, but now your hair and clothes are Farrow. As long as you don't talk, folk won't be certain where you're from." She considered a moment, then went to work again on the hair above my brow. After a moment she rummaged around and gave me a mirror. "The white will be a lot less noticeable now."

She was right. She had trimmed out most of the white hair, and pulled forward black hair to fall over the stubble. My beard now hugged my face as well. I nodded a grudging approval. There was a knock at the door. "Leave it outside!" Starling called through the door. She waited a few moments, then fetched in her breakfast and the hot water. She washed, then suggested I put a good edge on my knife while she ate. I did so, wondering as I honed the blade if I felt flattered or irritated at her refashioning of me. She was beginning to remind me of Patience. She was still chewing as she came to take the knife from my hand. She swallowed, then spoke.

"I'm going to give your beard a bit more shape. You'll have to keep it up, though, I'm not going to shave you every day," she warned me. "Now damp your face down well."

I was substantially more nervous as she brandished the knife, especially as she worked near my throat. But when she was finished and I took up the looking glass, I was amazed at the changes she had wrought. She had defined my beard, confining it to my jaw and cheek. The square-cut hair hanging over my brow made my eyes look deeper. The scar on my cheek was still visible, but it followed the line of my mustache and was less noticeable. I ran my hand lightly over my beard, pleased with how much less of it there was. "It's quite a change," I told her.

"It's a vast improvement," she informed me. "I doubt that Creece or Dell would recognize you now. Let's just be rid of this." She gathered up the hair cuttings and opened the window to fling them out onto the wind. Then she shut it and brushed off her hands.

"Thank you," I said awkwardly.

"You're welcome," she told me. She glanced about the room, and breathed a small sigh. "I'm going to miss that bed," she told me. She set to packing with a swift efficiency. She caught me watching her and grinned. "When you're a minstrel who wanders, you learn to do this quickly and well." She tossed in the last items, then laced her pack shut. She swung it to one shoulder. "Wait for me at the bottom of the back stairs," she commanded. "While I go settle my bill."

I did as she bade me, but waited substantially longer in the cold and wind than I had expected. Eventually she emerged, rosycheeked and ready for the day. She stretched herself like a little cat. "This way," she directed me.

I had expected to shorten my stride to accommodate her, but found that we matched pace easily. She glanced across at me as we strode away from the merchants' sector of town, and headed to the northern outskirts. "You look different today," she informed me. "And it's not just the haircut. You've made up your mind about something."

"I have," I agreed with her.

"Good," she said warmly, as she took my arm companionably. "I hope it's to trust me."

I glanced at her and said nothing. She laughed, but did not release my arm.

The wooden walkways of the merchants' section of Blue Lake soon disappeared and we walked in the street past houses that huddled against each other as if seeking shelter from the cold.

The wind was a constant chill push against us as we strode along cobbled streets that gave way eventually to roads of packed earth that ran past small farmsteads. The road was rutted and muddy from the rains of the last few days. This day at least was fair, even if the blustery wind was cold. "Is there much farther to go?" I finally asked of her.

"I'm not certain. I'm simply following directions. Watch for three stacked rocks at the side of the road."

"What do you really know of these smugglers?" I demanded.

She shrugged a bit too casually. "I know they are going to the Mountains, when no one else is. And I know they are taking the pilgrims with them."

"Pilgrims?"

"Or whatever you wish to call them. They go to honor Eda's shrine in the Mountain Kingdom. They had bought passage on a barge earlier in the summer. But then the King's Guard claimed all the barges for their own use and shut down the borders to the Mountain Kingdom. The pilgrims have been stuck in Blue Lake since then, trying to find a way to continue their journey."

We came to the three stacked rocks, and a weedy track through a rocky, brambly pasture surrounded by a rock-and-pole fence. A few horses were grazing disconsolately. I noted with interest they were Mountain-bred, small and patchy-coated at this time of year. A little house was set well back from the road. It was built of river rock and mortar, with a sod roof. The small outbuilding behind it matched it. A thin trickle of smoke escaped its chimney, to be swiftly dispersed by the wind. A man sat on the fence, whittling at something. He lifted his eyes to regard us and evidently decided we were no threat. He made no challenge to us as we passed him and went to the door of the cottage. Just outside the cottage, fat pigeons cooed and strutted in a cote. Starling knocked at the door, but the answer came from a man who walked around the corner of the house. He had rough brown hair and blue eyes and was dressed like a farmer. He carried a brimming bucket of warm milk. "Who do you seek?" he greeted us.