I shook my head no. Hell, Mama could burn whole sewers in that pot of hers and the smell wouldn’t be worsened or improved a single whit.

“Well, I did. Cost me three month’s wages. And she skipped out of that circle like I’d done naught but sneeze in a flour-sifter. No.” Mama shook her head sagely. “Ain’t nothing can keep this child contained, if’n she’s got a mind to go elsewheres.”

Evis put his dead white face in his pale, claw-tipped fingers.

“Mama. The point, please. It’s late.”

Mama sniffed. “Well, I got to thinkin’. Whatever magic this child has is a powerful old magic, and the likes of me ain’t going to best it.” She cackled and grinned at Stitches. “I reckon the same could be said ‘bout you, ain’t that right?”

Indubitably.

“Well, I thinks, if ain’t nothing but Buttercup’s magic equal to Buttercup’s magic, then how can I take hold of some of that?”

Stitches lifted her chin a full fraction of an inch.

“So, I took to collectin’ hairs,” said Mama, her wide old face suddenly smug. “Oh, she sheds hairs like any young un’. And she likes havin’ her hair brushed, don’t ye, child?”

Buttercup giggled and squirmed in her lap.

“So I took them hairs, I did, and I tied them end to end. And when I had me a nice long line made, I hired a man to weave me a rope around it.”

I applaud you, Missus Hog. That was a stroke of sheer brilliance.

Mama actually blushed. Darla saw it too, but wisely said nothing.

“I don’t know about all that. Just common sense. If’n you wants to hold something that can’t be held, use a rope what can’t be broken. That’s an old Troll sayin’, Miss Stitches. I reckon them Trolls is a mite smarter than what anybody thinks, hereabouts.”

Indeed. This rope of yours-it allowed you to pass through the shield, unharmed, in the same way the child did.

“I got to be honest. I didn’t know nothin’ about no magical shields. I wasn’t even intending on coming here. I got the rope back from the rope-maker yesterday. I tied it around her waist at sunset. And damned if she didn’t drag me all the way here like I was one of her dolls.” Mama pushed a grey shock of hair out of her face. “Truth is, she hauled me through Rannit kickin’ and cussin’, and if I hadn’t knocked a man out of his rowboat and jumped in I reckon I’d have been drowned when Little Bit here first took to the Brown.”

I said it so Stitches wouldn’t have to. “You mean you just kept hanging on, knowing where she was probably heading?”

Mama grinned a crooked grin.

“Like I said, boy. She’s kinfolk, or close enough to it. And I knowed she was comin’ cause your fool hide was in danger. Now, can I get one of them fancy cigars?”

Evis fumbled in his pocket.

“What do you know about banshee magic?”

Stitches shrugged. Nothing. Hers is a magic ancient beyond even my ken.

Something changed in the not-voice Stitches used.

There are cycles to magic, finder. Seasons, if you will.

I looked around. Evis was lighting Mama’s cigar. Gertriss and Darla were trying to keep Buttercup seated and inconspicuous. I gathered no one but me was hearing Stitches speak.

The child you call a banshee was created during an age when arcane conditions were different from those which exist today. If I continue my seasonal analogy, your Buttercup was born on the longest day of summer, when magic burned hot and bright.

I nodded, hoping Stitches would continue.

If that was summer, then today is early spring after a long cold winter. The magic that imbued the banshee is not even possible today. Nor will it be for some long time. But she still wields a shadow of it, which means she is unbound by the rules beings born in winter must obey.

I dared a whisper. “So that’s how she walked through your spells.”

I doubt she even noticed them.

Inspiration made my heart sink.

“How many other of these summer-born critters do you think might be out there?”

A goodly number. But these creatures, and their domiciles, are known. Cataloging such creatures is commonplace among my peers. Most summer-born slumber, nearly in hibernation, awaiting the end of the magical winter. Those who do not sleep have taken to the Deep. They do not walk among us.

“That’s a relief,” I whispered, though no one was paying me any attention. Another disturbing thought arose. “But Buttercup wasn’t in any catalog, was she?”

She was not. Either her childlike nature has kept her hidden or she has hidden behind a childlike nature.

Buttercup made us both jump by emitting a loud snort of giggling from beneath the table. Darla and Gertriss struggled to pull her back into her seat.

“So, what does all this have to do with our little dinner cruise?”

Everything. Stitches paused long enough to waggle her fingers. The noise around me diminished, though mouths still moved and musicians still plucked at their strings. Even those who slumber are not entirely removed from the world. They leave behind-we shall call them agents. Agents dedicated to preventing the rise of cannon. Of rifles. Of steam engines. Of anything and everything that could pose a threat to their masters, when they wake. Stitches gestured, taking in the Queen’s bustling casino floor. So yes. Our little dinner cruise, as you call it, has taken on a significance only a few understand.

I wasn’t thrilled to be numbered among that few.

“So the attacks on Avalante. On the Regent. Hell, even on me-it’s these agents trying to keep us from forging cannon big enough to blow their masters to bits?”

In essence. They see the Regency as a possible point of emergence for technologies and sciences which could one day endanger even the most powerful magical beings.

“So what the hell is the Regent doing taking long boat rides when he ought to be hiding deep in a bunker somewhere?”

Conflicts are never resolved through defense alone.

I grabbed for a beer, found only empties.

“Draw them out. Make himself such a tempting target, and so far from the High House that the agents can’t resist taking a whack.”

Thus revealing their allies among Rannit’s sorcerous elite. Hag Mary we know. Her compatriots we do not. Yet.

“Do me a favor and stop spilling state secrets. I’m getting the uncomfortable impression it’s not healthy to know any of this.”

The Corpsemaster trusted you. I trust she had reason to do so.

“I hear the Corpsemaster was a little too careless with her trust. That true, Stitches? About who killed her?”

She knew damned well who it was we weren’t talking about. The Regent.

It may interest you to know the huldra was also a relic of the summer years.

I cussed. No answer was as damning as a cheerful confirmation.

“That explains all the sudden interest in it. Can’t have that running loose.”

Indeed. I still fail to understand why the Corpsemaster allowed such a potent object to be introduced so haphazardly in the midst of a growing conflict.

“She had a wicked sense of humor.”

The noise around us returned to its previous level. Darla and Gertriss looked up suddenly, as though I’d spoken.

“Boss?”

“Dear?”

“Nothing. Was just calling for Dutson. He owes me a beer.”

The omnipresent Dutson appeared at my side, bearing a frosty brown bottle and a clean crystal glass.

“Shall I pour, sir?”

I indicated my assent with a wave of my aristocratic right hand and was pleased when it didn’t shake.

If what Stitches said was true, our little dinner cruise was drawing far more interest than I’d ever imagined possible.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

“A rowboat and a fast horse.”

Dutson merely nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He toddled away. Darla gave me a questioning glance. I grinned and shrugged, which is our private code for ‘explanations will follow.’