The pitch stood, like the quilled back of a porcupine, in wait for the kippers to come and clear away the spent arrows that littered the green. The first part of the day had been given to archery: Sir Thiemo had taken first place in the wand, pocking the six-inch alder with every one of the arrows in his quiver, while a Toth yeoman called Gerd from Geltesten had taken the clout. From a distance of ten score yards, he had managed to place arrows from all six ends within a yard of the white flag, garnering a score that fell only three points short of the highest ever collected at the Feast tourney.

Next would be the popinjay, wherein some two dozen straw birds would be tied to perches about the field at odd distances for the archers to test their aim upon, but in the meantime, the crowd enjoyed something simpler, more base: wrestling.

A squire called Henrich from Brunnich and Mirko, the people's champion of Hresl, were circling one another, each dressed in no more than a thick gambeson and chausses. Their feet shuffled in the dirt, sweat collecting on their brows as they danced. In an instant, both sprang forward, taking each other by the shoulders. Henrich swept his right arm low, grabbing for Mirko's leg to try and throw him, but his reach was blocked, his arm pinned against Mirko's thigh as a hand pressed down upon his neck. Yield.

The who men came together again, this time their shoulders pressing together as they grabbed each other's sides. The squire used his left hand to grab Mirko's elbow and pull it downward before twisting the upper farm of his arm back, forcing the man to the ground with apparent ease. Yield.

The men clashed together, their shoulders meeting before Mirko reached up and took the squire by the back of the neck with both hands. He had him locked in place. But the squire did not yield and managed to wrench free, driving his hands up under Mirko's chin, driving him back. He swept quickly behind his opponent, wrapping his arms around his Mirko's waist, lifting him from the ground and throwing him. Yield.

Mouse looked around, scanning the crowd for any sign of the young knight from Pothes Mar. Sir Frederik had given her a charge: he had asked her to deliver a message to Agatha. She was to meet him on the morrow at the south gate, the very same hour that the sun began to crest the western hills. The purpose of this meeting, Mouse could only imagine, though she dared not ask, was for the two lovers to run away together. It was a tempting thing to ignore, but she had already cost Agatha one chance of escape, and she found that she could not in good conscience allow another opportunity to pass.

Mouse did not hear the snapping sound, but she heard the cry that followed, and looked down to see the squire on the grown, cradling a twisted arm.

If she went now, there was as good a chance as any that she would not be missed. She chewed her lip, and with little further hesitation, rose, making her excuses to no one in particular, and left.

Mouse stood outside the door of Agatha's rooms and took one final breath of resolution. A more foolish notion she had scarcely known, but it was not for her to judge the acts of others. All she could do was to abide her own heart, her own conscience, and hope that it did not lead her astray. After all, it was not a question of what was right or wrong or dutiful or lawful or good or prudent. It was a question of what one could live with, how much misery one was willing to accept, and how much happiness one was brave enough to hope for.

Her knock was answered by a short woman with a ruddy complexion, who stepped aside and let Mouse enter.

"Is Lady Agatha within?" Mouse asked. The maid glanced over her shoulder, and Mouse followed her gaze to the bed, where Agatha sat among the rumpled blankets with a small orange cat in her lap. Her rooms were much larger than Mouse's, better fitted and more elaborately furnished, and yet somehow, despite the fact that Agatha had two maids to herself, were notably more unkempt.

"Agatha," Mouse said, ignoring the disarray of the place and crossing to the bed. "I have not seen you in some days. Have you been well?"

The girl scarce looked up at her.

"Will you not send your maid away?" Mouse tried again. "I should like to speak with you about something."

But still, Agatha said nothing. She had grown thinner, Mouse saw now, her usually bright complexion sallow, her face drawn. It was enough to cause a pang of guilt to tug at Mouse's heart.

Gingerly, she lowered herself onto the edge of the bed next to Agatha whose thin, delicate fingers were gently stroking the cat that lay sprawled across her legs. She reached for the girl's hand, but Agatha withdrew.

I deserve that, thought Mouse. She cast a wary glance over her shoulder at the maid before opening her lips to speak.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Agatha," she said in a voice low enough that she hoped it would not be overheard, "Frederik is here."

Agatha's long lashes flickered, and her fingers stopped stroking the cat.

"He wants for you to meet him by the south gate on the morrow, just before sunset. He's going to take you away."

Agatha's chest rose and fell. Her eyes slowly lifted, her lips trembling.

Truly?" she asked, her round blue eyes full of tears.

Mouse nodded her head.

"Truly."

Something new now writ itself upon Agatha's countenance. Every hope that a heart had ever clung to, every dream that had melted in the light of morning, every wish, every prayer, every indulgence of a spirit given to affection and tenderness, like the blooming of an early spring in the garden of youthful expectation.

The golden-haired girl of summer fair threw her arms around Mouse's neck, and Mouse squeezed her back tightly. She felt an unexpected warmth come over her, an affection she did not know had been there.

Mouse had never understood Agatha; they were each too different. But she understood what it was to love, how tenuous and fragile it felt, like trying to cling to the current of a river as it flowed toward some unknown purpose, like following a song carried on a breeze, like trying to snatch the moon from the sky. She understood what it was to dream, to wish, to wait. And if she could give Agatha that which she herself had lived in fear of losing so long, she would gladly do so again and again and again.

Mouse rose from the bed, leaving Agatha to wipe her tears and gather her things, to collect herself and prepare for the journey ahead. Maybe Agatha wasn't foolish, as she had so often thought, maybe she was simply too brave and uncompromising for her own good.

Mouse returned to her own chambers, her heart both heavy and light at once. She did not know if she had done the right thing, but she had done the thing that she could live with, and that was all that mattered.

She crossed the room and went to her desk, sliding open the drawer and taking out the letter from the Foilunder, carefully unfolding it.

"Jewel of Aros," she read, "bender of bows, thief of hearts."

A smile spread across her lips, even as an ache tugged at her heart.

"As I write this letter, I am visited by a funny little black bird, the same one who greets me every morning. I think you would call her Cherith, but I have another name for her, for she begins to appear familiar to me…"

Mouse read the letter three times over before folding it up again and replacing it. Why had she never written back to the Foilunder? she wondered. Was it because she did not know what to say, or was it because she was afraid, afraid of giving up more of her heart than she had already parted with?

She took out the tafl piece, studying the shape of the little wooden archer woman. It had been carved with such tenderness, such care. Mouse closed her eyes and thought of the Foilunder, the way he had looked sitting on the stone bench of the courtyard with plumes of Prusian silk falling onto his knee as he called out to her. She squeezed the tafle piece her palm before opening her eyes once again and replacing it along with the letter in the drawer.

She knew that she should go back to the tournament, lest she be wanted, but she had no wish to. She would rather remain here, to lie down in her feathers and dream of Kingfishers' bridge. She pulled open the bottom drawer of her desk, taking out the tome. She placed it on her desk, running a finger along the etchings in the fine leather cover, before flipping it open and leafing to the place where the pages had been carved out. Carefully, she wedged out the small wooden box and, hooking a finger beneath the latch, lifted the lid. Her breath caught in her throat.

"No." The word fell out of her mouth in a gasp. "No, no, no."

The small glass vial of glimmering purple nightshade, the one which had guarded so closely, the one which she had not failed to check even a single day since her return from Pothes Mar, was gone.

Mouse paced the length of the old man's chambers.

It had all seemed so simple at the time. Steal a letter. Burn a parchment. It had been so easy.

Her fingers worried themselves together, looking for a loose thread on her sleeve to tug at.

Why had she done it?

Upon finding the vial of poison missing, Mouse had realized just how closely someone had been watching her, just how much they had seen, how much they knew. It was not just that she had broken the law, made her small rebellions, she had made herself a traitor. How different it all seemed when she thought of it that way. She had not committed an act, she was the act. She was treachery. Conspiracy. Treason.

Worse still, she had come to the realization that all that boldness which had persuaded her to make a stand against the Empress, against the Empire itself, was not courage that she could claim as her own; no, her bravery had been borrowed, derived from the notion that she was someone more than Mouse, someone better. But for all she knew, that was a lie.

No sooner had the old man come than Mouse turned to face him with a countenance pale and worrisome. She watched him cross the room, leaning on his staff, until he sank into his chair. He closed his eyes, sighing in relief, before opening them again and raising an expectant brow.

"I need to ask you something," Mouse said. She licked her dry lips. "My parents. Is there—" She swallowed. "Is there any proof, any evidence of who they were? Of who I am?"

The old man peered at her from her from beneath bushy white brows.

"How do you mean?" he asked.

"Is there any proof?" Mouse repeated, unable to keep the desperation from creeping into her voice. "Something that—something that might stand in a legal sense perhaps."

Ludger pulled at a white hair sprouting from his chin.

"A legal sense," he echoed thoughtfully.

"There must be something," Mouse said, her voice rising. "Elsewise, why tell me all this?" She shook her head. Her skin felt hot, and her clothes suddenly as though they were too tight. The old man stared at her. "Why go to the trouble of convincing me of something that cannot be proved?" Mouse demanded. The lump in her stomach was working its way upward toward her throat, threatening to suffocate her. "There must be something!"

Ludger looked at her with cool grey eyes, eyes that Mouse feared saw more than just her panic and desperation.

"Maudeleine," he said, "what have you done?"

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