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“Yes.” Rilda regarded it lovingly. “Think it’s supposed to be a stag, with those nubs for antlers, but I’ve never been sure.” She thought about it. “Could be a bear, I suppose, and those the ears—”

“Rilda!” Gillian seethed. “Make sense!”

Sharp blue eyes looked up at her suddenly. “But I am. That story I just told you? That is what we were supposed to do, what we were meant to be. The shepherds of our people—that is what the fey envisioned, why they taught us to see through the trees. Not for some esoteric knowledge, but to see what our ancestors got right and wrong and learn from it, so that we could better lead others.

“But by leading, they didn’t mean to lord it over the rest. We were supposed to talk to the people, find out their needs and do what we could to help them. But over the centuries, we forgot that. It became about what we wanted. Their land became ours, and the abilities we’d been taught in order to help them were used to push forward our own desires. We turned inward, no longer looking for wisdom, but for power.

“Which brings us to the Circle.”

“They are the ones who crave power!” Gillian said, in disbelief that she had to say this. “They lust after it, kill for it. You know that!”

“Yes, they do. But why do they?”

“It’s in their nature! They’re sick with it—”

“In some cases, yes, you’re probably right. But specifically, why come here? Why come to England?”

“You know full well why,” Gillian said angrily and turned away again, this time striding over to the window. That was apparently permitted as Kit did not try to stop her. But if she was looking for a distraction, she didn’t find one.

Gloom shrouded the alley below and the weather above had turned as dark as her mood. Rain was coming, she could smell it on the air. And then a flash of lightning cracked overhead, momentarily lighting the little room.

It sparkled off Rilda’s collection, a whole lifetime in miniature, constantly staring at her. Was that what had done it? Gillian wondered. What had addled her thoughts? Looking at those she could not save, all day, every day, even sleeping with their eyes upon her . . .

Gillian had once envied her friend her collection, had wished that she possessed one of her own, something to hold onto besides her memories. She did so no more. Those she had lost were gone and buried, yet they haunted her even now. What must this have done to Rilda?

“Do you dream of them?” she asked, taking a picture off a shelf.

It was tiny, even more so than most, which averaged about three inches high. This one was perhaps half that, as if meant to go in a locket, and the poor light should have made the features all but invisible. But it had been done so cleverly, and given almost a burnished gold background, that it seemed to glow from within.

It was someone she knew, Agatha . . . something; she couldn’t remember now. But the artist had captured the face perfectly. Middle aged, lined, in a simple linen cap with no lace or frills, and kind gray eyes.

There were no jewels here, like those that festooned the portraits at court. Master Hilliard had been a goldsmith once, and he delighted in making gemstones out of paint, and burnishing them with a weasel’s tooth to a high shine. The result rivaled the real thing.

But the detail here was just as fine: faint laugh lines around the eyes, with a bit of dirt in the creases, for Agatha had been a passionate gardener and always shed a bit of soil wherever she went; tiny, flyaway hairs, fine as spider’s silk, escaping from under her coif, mostly still blonde; and the delicate veins in the leaves she held, which weren’t the flowers a lady might have clutched, but rather the tops of a bunch of parsnips, which she probably planned to have for her dinner.

Gillian felt herself smiling in spite of everything, maybe because Agatha would have far preferred the parsnips. Or because the woman herself was grinning, too. Most people sat stiffly for portraits, having to hold the pose for hours at a time while the artist worked. But Agatha had always been quick to laugh.

In her, the joy of a child had never died.

“Sometimes,” Rilda agreed. “Ev did. He painted most of them after . . . after. Thought it would exorcise them from his mind; said he couldn’t close his eyes without them crowding the space behind the lids, looking at him.”

“Did it help?” Gillian asked, fighting to keep her voice steady.

“No. He picked a fight with a couple of Corpsman in a tavern, four years ago now. People said he was drunk and that they overreacted, but I knew better. Suppose he wanted to go out like the rest of them did. He always said that it felt like they’d gone on a journey and left him behind.”

“And yet you defend them!” Gillian said, turning back to her friend with tears in her eyes.

“Don’t defend, girl,” Rilda said gruffly. “Explain, or I would, had you answered my question.”

“What question?”

“Why did the Circle come here?”

Gillian stared at her, wondering what trick this was. It was hard to read her expression. The candle’s light was poor, and the red embers of the pipe, glowing when she took a puff, limned her features strangely.

But then another flash of lightning flared, lighting her up, and if there was some sort of deception on that familiar face, Gillian couldn’t see it.

“They were losing badly in their fight on the continent,” she finally said. “Too many Master Dees whispering in too many kings’ ears. The Circle could fight off the dark, but not the legions of their human allies as well. They were outnumbered a thousand to one—”