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Rilda stopped at that, and pulled the two of them over to the side of the path. People continued to stream past, some giving them quick, curious glances as they did so. But no one paused except for the small pack of thieves, who had been trailing behind.

“Problem, Mistress?” the friar asked, shooting Kit as suspicious look, although he had yet to say a word.

“We’ll see this one out, if ye like,” the Abraham man said, as if he and the rest combined could put Kit anywhere that he didn’t want to go.

But the old witch waved even them on. “No, no, be off with you. Go sleep off some of that grog.”

“That grog stays with a man,” one of the sailors said to the other. “You know, ale hardly makes an impression, after that.”

“Go on, now,” Rilda said, and they went, after shooting Kit glances that said he had better be on his best behavior. He wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to be with two powerful witches suddenly staring each other down.

Perhaps he should have been paying more attention.

“Rilda—” Gillian said grimly.

“Ye’re in no fit state to hear it,” Rilda said, her jaw mulish. “Have never been, else we would have had this conversation ere now. But ye don’t want it; ye want to hate the Circle, and ye’ve a right there, if anyone has. But as for the rest . . . it would only enrage you.”

“That’s not for you to decide!”

“If I have t’bear the brunt of your anger, it is,” the old woman said frankly.

“I can control myself!” Gillian said, which might have been more believable if she’d looked less furious.

Rilda seemed to share that sentiment, and glanced about at the people on the path, many of whom were within earshot, before looking back at Gillian. “Tea,” she said suddenly and forcefully, as if something had been decided.

Gillian blinked. “Beg pardon?”

“A new type, not medicinal but for pleasure. A friend sent it to me.”

Gillian looked as thrown off balance by the change of topic as Kit was. “But I wanted—”

“Yes, yes, we’ll talk, if ye must, but not here. Sun is close to setting and we must away. Come with me.”

Chapter Thirty

Although Rilda hadn’t cast a spell to speed his footsteps, Kit suddenly found himself rushing along the path behind the two women, as though his slops were on fire. After spending a short time in her company, he understood how she had once led a coven. The forcefulness of her personality was enough to rival even his Lady at times, and would have annoyed him more, except that he was too busy eyeing the “baby” dragon curled up near the portal’s entrance.

She appeared to have completely healed from their encounter and was happily accepting pats and scritches from people as they exited. Indeed, she appeared to have positioned herself there for just that purpose, and was preening under their touch. Until she saw Kit, and smoke began to curl out of her nostrils.

He edged around the massive creature, sticking as close to Rilda as possible, and shamelessly kept her and Gillian between him and the dragon. And did not feel remotely bad about it, because the creature liked them. It wasn’t going to have another go at him with them in the way.

A moment later, he was through the door and back in the shabby little alehouse—and never so glad to be anywhere in his life!

Most of the people had who had reached it ahead of them had already left, probably eager to get back to their lodgings before the sun finished setting, as it was even closer to nightfall here. But a few had remained, including the fiddler, although he couldn’t be hoping for many coins from this lot. Until Kit surprised him, reclaiming his purse from Gillian and tossing the man a river of silver.

“Play,” he said. “Let us have a song, master fiddler!”

And a song they had, a sprightly human one this time, instead of the fey kind that the man had been playing to honor their hosts. It followed the three of them up the sagging stairs and onto the second floor, where Rilda had her personal quarters. It turned out to be a small room with a bed, table, several chests and a window overlooking an alley, which was letting in the last rays of the setting sun.

They gleamed off the most interesting thing about the place, which was a profusion of shelves, almost everywhere that there was room to fix one to the walls, full of strange objects. Kit tensed up, initially supposing them to be dangerous, witchy devices, and perhaps some of them were. But the ones on the nearest shelf were a little different.

There was a line of stump dolls, their simplistic, spindle-shaped bodies without moving parts being among the most basic of toys, the kind that showed up even in the poorest of homes. But these were decorated with finely painted clothes, down to the lace edging their caps and kerchiefs, and the delicate prints on their fashionable gowns. One even had a miniature purse at her belt, covered all over with painted embroidery.

There were also toy horses, including one with a small knight perched on top. Its armor was made out of gray knitted wool, cleverly done so as to resemble chain mail, with a colorful tabard on top. And, as if to complement the latter, a castle carved out of wood stood alongside, with gaily colored pennants that looked like they might have been made from real scraps of silk.

The castle was only half painted, with trailing ivy and realistic looking gray stones on one side, but plain wood on the other. It resided next to an accumulation of painter’s supplies, including several squirrel hair brushes and a group of mussel shells, the latter of which had been used to hold paint. Some were still stained by the different colors.

It looked as if whoever had been working on the castle would be right back. But there was a fine layer of dust over the whole collection, as if it had been there a while. It gave Kit an eerie feeling, although he could not have said why.