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It is not clear or pure. It is muddy. Dirt whirls in spirals.

“It is possible to separate the pure from the impure, but the impurities have value. The sediment enriches the water, the inhabitants enrich the sediment. There is nothing so undesirable here that it does not have its uses.” As she speaks, the water in her palm clears, but not with magic. The dirt falls, collecting against the mage’s skin, and leaves the water atop clean and inviting.

Baltisse drinks from her hands quickly and shakes away the dirt.

Dawsyn kneels to the earth and cups her palms in the warm water, watching the dips and darts of the living things within it and marvelling. Goodness can hide amongst the bad, just as evil can wrap itself in righteousness.

Dawsyn drinks, and then looks to the pond’s surface, watching her reflection distort and then settle, but instead of herself, she sees the face of a person she does not know. It squints when she squints, gapes when she gapes. A beggar woman appears. A face lined and weathered far more than her own. Eyes grey, not brown. Lips thin and brittle.

She startles, rising from her crouch, spinning around wildly.

“Dawsyn?” Baltisse asks.

Dawsyn’s eyes swing left to right searching in vain. “There was a woman–”

“There is no one else in these woods.”

Dawsyn turns back to the water and looks again, down to its still surface. Again, the face of a stranger peers back at her. Dawsyn lifts her hands to her cheeks and feels her familiar curves and valleys. “Is… is that me?”

“No,” Baltisse says. “Pure things generally come disguised.”

“I am far from pure.”

“Yes,” Baltisse says easily. She reaches for the cloak that still shrouds Dawsyn’s frame and lays her hand to it. The reflection in the water ripples, turning from beggar-woman back into herself. “But you are not so ruined that you can’t be found.”

“You disguised me?”

“The cloak did, actually,” Baltisse says. “It is nearing dusk. Come.”

“Where do you plan for us to hide?”

“I do not hide,” Baltisse scoffs. “We will take shelter in my house.”

Dawsyn follows, interest piqued. What would a mage’s den comprise? A vat of stewing animal bones? Vials of poison? Spirits of the underworld?

“Not the first two,” Baltisse says suddenly.

Dawsyn frowns. “Must you read my mind?”

“I do not have to if you can keep me from your thoughts.”

Is that how it works?Dawsyn thinks.Do you only hear my thoughts if they are of you?

“Yes,” Baltisse says. “I tire of it. Although, it has helped over the decades to weed out those who wish to burn me at the stake.”

“And what happens to the ones who wish you ill?”

“I wish them ill in return,” Baltisse answers, trudging on through the darkening wood. “Althoughmywishes tend to come true.”

Dawsyn smirks. She supposes they would.

Night has fallen when they reach the cabin. The towering trees on all sides seem to hold up its walls. Indeed, if it weren’t for Baltisse guiding her, Dawsyn is sure she would have walked right by.

Baltisse enters through the arched door and steps within, Dawsyn following.

The imagined cave of wicked invention is nowhere here. The small home is mostly ordinary. There is a table and chairs, a bench, a bed, a fireplace, wall and windows and a ceiling. But the ceiling is obscured by shadow, and only when a fire appears in the hearth does Dawsyn recognise the shelves of jars, the bunched greenery, swinging from low-hung rafters all over.

“Herbs?”