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“Wh… the… theLedge?Mother of all fucking hell!”

“I said, mind yer fuckin’ manners!” Salem roars.

“The Ledge?! How the fuck did you get here, girl?”

“Esra! Calm down, you imbecile!”

“Sweet holy mother! I should be kissing those hideous bandages upon your feet and here I am, talking about your awful clothes! Come here, dear girl!”

Esra reaches her then and with a flourish, he wraps both meaty arms around her shoulders in a hug she does not return. “You miraculous creature! But how did you do it? You must tell me your tale! SALEM! Get everyone a drink.”

“No, yeh blight! And put her down! She’s eatin’ breakfast. She ain’t got no need to be divulgin’ anythin’ to yeh.”

“Begging your pardon, miss,” Esra says, a hand to his chest, now overexerted. And to his credit, his eyes are round with genuine awe and something else… remorse, perhaps? “No one has ever come back from that godforsaken place. Tell me, did you know a man there? By the name of Roth?”

Dawsyn’s eyes widen, too. “I knew the Roth family, though I doubt I knew a man who once lived here.”

Esra’s hands clasp together and he brings them to his lips. “I suppose not. Tell me, how did you esc–”

“Are you a man or a woman?” Dawsyn asks abruptly. Her expression inscrutable.

Salem mutters an oath beneath his breath, but Ryon only grins, watching her.

Esra contemplates her before answering. “I’d rather think I transcend either, my dear.”

“But what do I call you?”

“Call me Esra, call me darling, call me bitch, for all I care,” he says, his hand reaching for hers. “But never lower me to such mundane names as man or woman. For the purposes of our impending friendship, though, I suppose you can sayhewhen you must, if only for lack of a better word.”

Dawsyn grins at Esra, her eyes alight with her own wonder, and then nods.

Without warning, Esra rounds on Salem. “I am staying for a few days.”

“Yeh’ll do no such thing. She don’t need no one breathin’ down her throat every two seconds. Leave her be!”

“It’s too late. I’ve already put my things in my usual room. Come with me, dear. I’ll find you something much less revolting to wear.”

Dawsyn fires a look to Ryon as she is pulled from her seat.

“Do not worry,” he tells her.

Before she can reply, Esra whisks her from the room, the red velvet of his cloak flaring out behind him.

The pair return as Salem and Ryon clear the food from the bar – Esra as he was and Dawsyn in a dress far more becoming than the one she stumbled down the slope in. The fabric is heavy and will warm her, the waist is cinched and the sleeves are pointed at the wrists, wrapping around the cracked edges of her small hands. A pattern weaves through the dark gray fabric, curving down her shape, disappearing into the hem. She appears properly washed, her hair brushed, and though there are signs that her body knew hardship – in the calluses and scars and lean muscle – she might now be indistinguishable from the other women of Terrsaw.

But not indistinguishable to Ryon, who cannot look at her and see something plain.

Salem gives a low whistle. “Well, lass, yeh look a sight better, I’d say.”

“Thank you,” she tells him. “Esra was quite adamant that I should keep it.”

“Aye, he’s got about a hundred of ’em. He won’t miss the one.”

“Thank you for being so generous,” she says, looking each of them in the eye. They linger on Ryon. “And thank you for helping me here… Ryon.”

Ryon smirks. He can hear how it pains her to show him politeness. “You’re welcome.”

“I’ll go now,” she says.