I took in the faces, the expressions, the postures. Most exchanged what-the-hell looks and mopped sweat. A few looked down or away. Milton’s gaze fell on his empty plate and remained there, unmoving.

“This is Mr. Markhat,” said Lady Werewilk, above the crackle and roar of the fire. “The finder from town. You will answer, honestly and without regard to my presence, any question he puts to any of you. Failure to answer, or to answer truthfully, will see you removed at once from my House. Is that clear?”

A chorus of “Yes ma’ams” sounded in reply.

Lady Werewilk nodded. “Good. I would be remiss if I failed to remind you all of the curse laid upon this hearth by my great-great-great grandfather Lint, which describes a variety of unpleasant demises that will pursue anyone who speaks a lie while basking in the warmth of his fire.” She smiled. “And as I see you are basking, we may begin. You may dine as we speak.”

Forty-five forks clattered on forty-five plates. Mine was not among them.

“We’ll start by going around the room,” I said, over the din. “Say your name, how long you’ve been here and what you do here. I’ll start. Markhat. I’m a finder. Been here three hours.”

I nodded at Gertriss. She introduced herself, and then the fun began.

I won’t bore you with the repetitions of forty-five names, except to say that Skin the beekeeper spoke in such low tones his every word had to be repeated aloud by Marlo, and Milton Werewilk would only speak his own name when prompted by Singh the butler in the same coaxing tones one might use with a shy child.

The rundown revealed the same names and times that Lady Werewilk had provided back in Rannit. I wasn’t expecting anything different. I just wanted to put names to faces. And to pick up any oddities the speakers might present.

I got a couple of those before I speared my first slice of crisp red apple.

The second of the artists to speak was a buxom, dark-haired beauty named Serris Eaves. Serris was maybe seventeen. She managed to state that she was a painter of the school of Wiltic impressionism, and that she’d been at Werewilk for a year. Then she choked up and had to fight off a bout of crying. Her unhappiness would have been obvious even if her voice hadn’t betrayed her. She’d made efforts to conceal her distress, but her eye-liner was running and her nose was red. She kept making both worse by dabbing at her eyes and nose with her dinner napkin.

Gertriss shot me a look. Weexil’s lady love?

I nodded in response. We’d see.

Milton Werewilk was the other oddity. He was a small man. Pale. Well-groomed and well dressed, unlike the Broken you can find collapsed in any ditch in Rannit. But what he shared with those men were the eyes.

Vacant. Oh, his eyes were fixed on something-a bowl of mashed potatoes, a bottle of wine-but he wasn’t really seeing it. His eyes just happened to be fixed there, while his mind was somewhere else.

I wondered where. I saw swords upraised. The huldra let me smell smoke, and I decided I probably knew.

He had Lady Werewilk’s dark hair and delicate features, but none of her animation. Singh fed him with a spoon. He chewed, but only as long as Singh mumbled to him.

I turned away.

“All right,” I said, as the last artist pronounced his name around a mouthful of green beans. “We all know each other. You all know why I’m here. So here’s my first question-where is Weexil Treegar?”

Serris Eaves broke out bawling. The pair of male artists flanking her laid hands on each shoulder and glared at each other while making soothing noises at Serris. I chuckled at the folly of youth.

Heads shook. Faces fell down, fixed on their plates.

I sighed.

“I know Weexil left early this morning,” I said. “I know his belongings were rather carelessly left in a cook stove fire. What I don’t know is who this Weexil was or what might have caused him to suddenly leave such lovely company and strike out for parts unknown. So someone tell me. Who was Weexil?”

The eager young painter seated on Serris’s right was the first to chime in, earning him a glare from the young man on her left.

“Weexil Treegar was a poser,” he said. “A poser and a cad.”

Serris burst into full-on hysterics.

“So he wasn’t an artist.”

My eager young man, who had introduced himself as Nordred Vasom, had a lot to learn about women.

“Weexil was a tradesman.” He sneered. “He fetched us things from town. Paints, canvases, brushes.”

Serris whirled on him, eyes flashing.

“He’s more than that,” she said, her voice ragged and quavering. “He has the soul of an artist. His songs…”

“His songs were stolen,” said the would-be suitor on her left. I glanced at Gertriss, who mouthed his name “Calprit Homes”.

“Stolen?”

The young man rolled his eyes. “Everyone knew it, Serris. He just took old ballads and made your name fit.”

Serris shrieked, flung a full beer into his face and fled the room. I made to signal Gertriss to follow, but she was already halfway out of her chair.

Laughter rose, quickly silenced with a sweeping, icy stare from Lady Werewilk.

“Continue, Mr. Markhat.”

I nodded. Calprit Homes mopped beer and blushed and glared at Nordred Vasom. I wanted to tell them they’d both better give Serris a wide berth for a long time or they’d get worse than beer in the face, if her expression as she fled was any indication of her fury. But some lessons have to be learned the hard way.

I put my fingertips together and assumed my All-Knowing Finder expression.

“Weexil’s departure makes me wonder,” I said. “It makes me wonder what else he did here, beside fetching you brushes and paints and canvases.”

“He did Serris,” muttered a painter, from behind his napkin. Nervous titters sounded, but quickly died.

“Which was apparently common knowledge,” I said. “So let’s talk about other happenings that were also common knowledge.” I leaned forward. “Let’s talk about the woman in the woods.”

Someone dropped a fork. Someone else coughed and choked. And not a single man-jack nor lady lovely in the entire blazing room would so much as meet my eyes.

Except, of course, Lady Werewilk.

“Those are mere legends,” she said, after a moment. Her tone made it clear my subject for dinner conversation failed to please her. “They were born before Rannit was walled. Perpetuated by a hundred generations of fearful peasants all eager to embrace any excuse to get them home and inebriated before dark.”

Marlo made a wordless gruffing sound. Lady Werewilk did not turn to fix him in her glare, and I gathered that was because she knew it was a contest she’d probably lose.

“Them what lives in the Wardmoor been seein’ that there woman for twenty-five, thirty years,” he said. “Them what lives here say she comes around when Death is a fixin’ to visit.”

“She ever been known to give Death a helping hand?” I put the question to Marlo, while keeping my eyes on Lady Werewilk. She still wasn’t happy, but she kept her lips tight together.

“Not that I know of. Reckon she just knows when to be, and where.”

I nodded, not committing to anything, hoping Marlo would go on.

Instead, he shrugged and filled his mouth with an enormous chunk of Lady Werewilk’s finest roast beef.

I watched Skin for a moment. The man was just pushing perfectly good food around on his plate. He hadn’t taken a bite since sitting. He was gaunt, tall and thin as a stick, and I suppose now I knew why.

“All right,” I said, beginning to wonder where Gertriss was. “Let’s talk about the surveyor’s markers.”

More sidelong glances and sweat mopping. Half of them would have darted, had not Lady Werewilk been perched at the head of the monstrous old table.

“Starting with Skin, I want to know who found them, and where.”

I pulled out my notepad and a brand new pencil as I spoke.