"Just think," said Embrel, "If we could really fly like the birds, then making maps would be easy."

That was an acute observation for one so young, thought Jerya. "It would… They say the ancients could fly." Perhaps that was a way to get him interested in history.

"Really? They had wings?"

"Not wings like the birds. But they could build machines like carriages, but that moved on their own, without horses, and some of them could leave the ground and fly through the air." The lad was looking at her sceptically. "That's what the stories say."

"Stories?"

"That's what history is," she said. "Stories. Stories about when things were different."

"When people flew through the air?"

"Some of them." Really, she’d often thought, what do his tutors think they're doing? There had been a succession of them, at least four that she could immediately name, and all had complained that it was hard to keep the lad's interest. Well, he wasn't patient, and he wasn't good at sitting still for long periods, but then he was nine years old.

So now… It was her own fault, really, failing to conceal her disdain for the latest of those plodding young men. Lady Pichenta had asked, "So you think you could do better?" and she had rashly responded, "I'd think it was hard to do worse." And now here she was, in addition to all her other duties, acting as interim… what would the word be? Governess? She had never heard of a female tutor, not on this side of the world; but she had never heard of a governess having authority over a male pupil either.

She collected her thoughts. "Let's go up to the attic. The end window… let's see if you can draw a map of the yard."

#

"That's very good," she said a little later. "But here's a question. Do you think it's a good idea to put the carriage in?"

"Why not?"

"Well, it's not always there, is it? It's only out because Whallin washed it and it's still drying off."

He wrinkled his nose, a sure sign of deep thought. There was one other person in the household who did that, and it wasn't either of his parents. His official parents. Really, it was a good thing Railu's hair had never come back, that she couldn't grow the Crest to which she would undoubtedly have been entitled. Jerya was certain that her hair would be black and curly, just like Embrel's. His official parents were both grey, but there wasn't a curl between them… Choss, I can hardly blame the lad if his attention wanders, when I'm woolgathering myself!

"Look," she said, "Remember the map on the library wall, the one that shows all the fields?"

"We looked at it earlier."

"Yes. And it has all their names, doesn't it?"

He nodded, but she could make a good guess at his thought. I know the names anyway; why would I need a map? She could have given him an answer; because you have a map in your head already. Maybe she would come back to that. "And what's growing in… UnderKnowe, this year?"

He barely needed to think. "Beets."

"Yes, quite right. But did they grow beets there last year?"

"No, it was clover, for fodder."

"Aye, and it's good for the soil, too. Then next year it'll be different again. But it's always called UnderKnowe and the hedges and gates are always in the same places…"

His nose wrinkled again for a moment, then his face brightened. "And tomorrow the coach won't be in the yard, but the coach-house will be in the same place."

"And the stables…"

"And the pump, and—" He broke off. "Someone's coming."

She could hear it too, hooves on the gravel, changing to a harder clatter as the horse entered the yard. Together, woman and boy peered through the open window.

"Do you know who it is?" asked Embrel.

"Don't think so." 

She gained only a rear view of the rider as he dismounted. A man, undoubtedly, and young, by the slim build and lithe movements, in well-fitting but unostentatious riding-clothes, with splashed boots and a dark green jacket. He handed the reins of the horse—a fine-looking bay of maybe sixteen hands—to Whallin, pausing for a brief conversation before striding off, presumably to the boot-room.

In that moment, as she watched, Embrel was gone. She heard a bustle in the house: Railu, announcing the arrival to the Master and Mistress; the unmistakable sound of Embrel descending the stairs two at a time; Lady Pichenta chiding him; a stranger's laugh. The men moved off, but she heard Pichenta giving instructions to the slaves.

Jerya sighed and made her way back to the library.

#

It was no surprise, ten or fifteen minutes later, to hear small feet running up the stairs; still less of a surprise when Embrel knocked on the door but entered without waiting for a reply. He stood beside her, looking down at the ledgers and invoice books and papers spread on the desk. "What are you doing?"

"What are you doing, Miss Jerya?" she corrected, softening the stern tone with a fond smile. 

"I beg your pardon. What are you doing, Miss Jerya?"

"Accounts."

"What's accounts?"

"It's how we keep a record of how much money comes in, and how much goes out." And how you find out when someone’s embezzling, she thought, remembering the months between first suspicions and finally delivering the proof of Grevel’s peculation.

"It sounds boring," he said, the easy response of one who had never yet needed to think about money, beyond a coin that found its way into his hand to buy a cake at a fayre.

"Money sounds boring… until you haven't got enough of it. Then it's not just interesting, it can be positively terrifying."

"Have we got enough?"

"Well, that's why I'm doing this, so we can be sure. But I would think so." Though not as much as there would be if Grevel had been honest…

"That's all right, then." He smiled, and she saw, as she all too often did, the echoes of Rodal in his face; the overall shape, especially the angle of the jaw, and more than anything the slightly crooked smile. The likeness was becoming more evident as he grew up. It was—she supposed—a good thing that no-one would ever see them together.

"You'll have to understand all this one day," she said.

"One day," he said. "Not now."

"Well, unless you came up specially to learn about accounts, no, not now." She gave him a quizzical look. "I presume there was a reason you came up? Tell me you'd finished your map, perhaps?"

"No," he said, and then brightened. "I would have, but a visitor's arrived… why are you smiling?"

At how cunning you think you are, she could have said, but instead she just said, "I know… So tell me, who is he, what's he like?"

#

His name—which Embrel had rendered almost correctly—was Hedric of Kirwaugh. What Embrel had failed to report was that he was The Honourable Hedric of Kirwaugh, and therefore not merely gentry, but nobility. Jerya had long resolved to remain unimpressed by such distinctions, but she needed to be informed about them. 'Honourable' indicated that he was the heir to a title, but Kirwaugh was not a name she had heard before. It lay, he said, in the woldlands to the North-East, most of a day's ride away.

Hedric himself was around her own age, perhaps a little younger. As she'd already observed, he was of slim build, and no taller than herself: a tidy figure, but not a particularly imposing one. It was impossible not to notice that his face was rather dominated by round, heavy-rimmed, eye-glasses. She had seen eye-glasses before, going right back to her days in the College; Tutor Yanil often wore them, and many of the older Tutors, a few of the younger ones, even one or two Novices. However, the lenses had always been much smaller. Glasses of this size would give a broader view, but must be very expensive, she thought. And heavy, she added to herself later, noticing how more than once he shifted them to rub at the bridge of his nose or over an ear.

He bowed politely as Duncal finished the introductions. "Miss Delven," he said with a warm smile, "A true pleasure to meet you."

She had heard that before, and it was generally no more than a polite platitude. She had too many memories of guests who had turned cool on learning that she had been freed; but Hedric was not like that. The very next moment, he said, "I have heard of you, of course, and hoped to make your acquaintance for some time. But it is awkward for me to get away as often, or roam as far, as I would like."

"That seems most unfortunate, sir."

"Unfortunate? Yes, to me it is."

They were interrupted by the dinner-gong, which came mostly as a relief to Jerya; people who were keen to meet her were often also keen to enquire about her history. Though she had grown expert at parrying such questions, it was never easy to do so without appearing rude, and she was already keen not to appear rude to this particular guest.

Fortunately, the conversation over dinner was very much focused on the campaign for the betterment of slaves. Jerya was able to make a few modest contributions, but mostly she sat back, enjoying the food—Rhenya had excelled herself—and observing. From occasional remarks and asides she gathered a good idea of why Hedric's freedom of movement was constrained. His Uncle, the Earl of Skilthorn, liked to keep his nephew and heir close to hand. She could see that this frustrated him, that he chafed against the restrictions. Unspecified ‘business’ in Denvirran had been the ostensible reason for his current journey, but it almost seemed as if he had come to Duncal in search of moral support, or reassurance.

But perhaps there was another reason. At the end of the meal, just as coffee was being brought in, he turned smilingly to Jerya. "I gather this house does not rigidly enforce the custom of gentlemen withdrawing after dinner, and neither the Squire nor myself are smokers, but I hope you will forgive us if tonight we do leave you? The Squire's telescope is an uncommonly fine instrument, I have heard, and tonight is a clear one."

His impatience was clear, and she could well understand it. How often she had gazed upon that same telescope? (How often, as a slave, had she dusted it?) How rarely had she enjoyed the opportunity to gaze through it?

Tonight was just the same. She was obliged to follow Lady Pichenta into the drawing-room, face her across the hearthrug, and talk of whatever Pichenta wished to talk about. At least things were easier than in the early years, when similar situations had been close to excruciating, stilted snatches of conversation punctuating long awkward silences. As Jerya had become more embedded in the life of the house, and the estate, they gained more common ground. And then, as Embrel grew, they gained a whole new topic of mutual concern, to which Jerya's role as governess gave added depth.

Tonight, not for the first time, their discussion centred on sending the lad away to school. Custom was rigid on this; sons of the gentry were sent away to be 'educated'. Only the timing permitted some variation. Some of Embrel's age would already be away at preparatory school. Twelve was as late as any family would leave it, and boys who went to school later than others were often thought to be at a disadvantage, socially if not intellectually.

The problem was, everyone in the house hated the thought of losing the boy's sunny presence, and Embrel himself was passionately opposed. It was almost the only thing that made him miserable. It was all familiar stuff, but they aired it again anyway, united in the faint hope of finding some way to reconcile the dictates of custom with the demands of everyone's heart.

They chewed over the question as they had several times before, but to no better resolution. "He needs friends of his own age," was the best argument Pichenta could come up with.

Hedric and Duncal had been out on the terrace for around an hour, when the Squire came in, rubbing his hands together. He hurried over to the fire, stood as close to it as he dared.

"'Pon my soul," he said, "That young man's made of sterner stuff than I am. A very devil for observing, hm." He glanced at Jerya. "I'm sure it would be a kindness to send out a pot of hot coffee. Would you be so good as to ask Rhenya to see to it?"

"Of course," she said, rising. "But perhaps I might take it out myself? Rhenya was up before any of us, probably hours before, and I've no doubt it'll be the same tomorrow."

"By all means, if you are happy to do so."

#

"Ah, Miss Delven. How very thoughtful…"

"It was the Squire's thought, sir."

"But you who enact it, so I give thanks to you both… You must think me a very mannerless guest, loitering out here all evening like this."

"Loitering, sir? Is there then no purpose to your remaining out here?"

A soft sound, perhaps a chuckle. "A poor choice of epithet, perhaps. 'Loitering' might be exactly how many see it, but astronomy…

"I must make a confession, Miss Delven. I am second to none in my admiration for your employers and their endeavours on behalf of the enslaved. And it would grieve me to think that you might have any cause to doubt my commitment to support this great work in whatever way presently lies within my powers. But…" This time, a distinct chuckle. "If they desired my undivided attention, the Squire should never have shown me this fine instrument—" He laid a hand on the casing of the telescope, delicately, so as not to disturb its alignment. "And most particularly not on such a night as this. It is most noticeable how a rise of even a few hundred feet improves the seeing, escaping the heavier airs of the Vale… 'Twould be interesting, some day, to make comparative measurements of pressure and humidity. And you have such a wide horizon here, especially of the Eastern sky."

He laughed again. "Pray forgive my ramblings. But perhaps you will discern that—notwithstanding my adherence to our noble cause—my true passion is science, and first among sciences, astronomy."

She lowered her coffee-cup. "May I ask what you have been observing tonight?"

"Why, of course—do you know something of astronomy, Miss Delven?"

"A little," she said. "A very little." I might have learned a great deal more if I had stayed West of the mountains. Might-have-beens were bittersweet, an indulgence she seldom allowed herself.

"Then may I ask if you know what is meant by the word 'nebula'?"

She thought; recalled a chapter of a book, and a single glimpse, under less than perfect conditions, of the Swordsman's Nebula. I probably remember every single object I've observed through a telescope, she thought. "A nebula appears to the unaided eye as a small fuzzy patch, like a wisp of cloud."

"Just so. But through a telescope, especially a fine instrument like this one, and on a night like this… well, Miss Delven, perhaps you would care to take a look for yourself."

I thought you'd never ask. "I should be very glad, if you do not mind."

"Not at all. When one has a passion such as mine, one delights in sharing it. 'Twould be a miserable soul who wished to keep the heavens to himself… I must only stipulate that you must feel no compunction in speaking out if you become too cold, or too bored.

"Now, you will need to adjust the focus significantly. I observe that you are fortunate enough not to require spectacles, and from that I deduce that your vision is far superior to mine."

He moved to show her how to make the adjustment, but Jerya was ahead of him. She might have enjoyed a mere handful of chances to observe through the telescope before, but she had dusted it any number of times, and studied it carefully while doing so. She knew exactly where the eyepiece was, and the little knurled wheel alongside it that provided precise adjustment.

The image swam, shimmered, sharpened, blurred again. She had over-adjusted the focus slightly and had to back the wheel a little. Then… "Oh, my word…"

"You have it clear? Magnificent, is it not?"

"It is… but please, sir, what exactly am I looking at?"

"We call it the Great Nebula."

Hedric mentioned something that she had first heard ten years ago, in another life: nebulae seem to be of different kinds. Even from just two observations, she could begin to grasp this: the Great Nebula she had just seen was clearly ordered, while the Swordsman's appeared ragged and chaotic. Therefore, he suggested, astronomers were bound to ask: are they different in kind, so that it becomes misleading to refer to both by the same term? And are they at different distances, in different regions of the heavens, perhaps? How could we tell, when we can barely measure the distances to the moons with any confidence of accuracy? Are they closer than the stars, or scattered among them, or even, hard though it may be to imagine, at a yet greater distance?

A little later, she became aware that she was growing cold.

"I should excuse myself," she said. "I have presumed upon your time long enough."

"Not at all, Miss Delven. Believe me, it is with the utmost sincerity that I say it is a true pleasure to share the experience with such an enthusiast. But if you are chilled, you must of course withdraw."

"Well," she said, emboldened. "I could, instead, go and fetch a warm shawl, and change my shoes. And perhaps I should inform my employers; if you intend to stay out here much longer, they might wish to retire."

"Of course. Truly, Miss Delven, it would bring me nothing but pleasure if you should wish to remain."

"Then I shall leave you for a few minutes only. Oh, and sir…"

"Yes?"

"I did not bring that coffee out merely for it to grow cold in its pot."

#

Having informed the Master and Mistress, she went on to the kitchen, where Railu and Rhenya were still sitting with hot drinks. She advised them to go to bed as soon as they wished; anything else that required doing she would manage herself.

It was nearing one of the morn when she and Hedric carried the telescope and its stand back inside. They left it in the drawing-room, as carrying it upstairs without waking any of the sleepers would be difficult. "How I should love to have a permanent observatory…" Hedric murmured wistfully as she locked the windows and closed the curtains for the final time. She was not sure how to answer this, so merely wished him a quiet, "Good-night—and thank you."

#

It seemed that Hedric, too, had risen too late for dining-room breakfast, and in the end they ate ad hoc at the kitchen table, Rhenya fussing over them. Jerya noticed, approvingly, that he seemed perfectly at ease with the informality. Then, somehow, it became the plan that they should take a walk together.

'That Knowe seems like it might give some view over the Vale," he said a moment after exiting.

Jerya did not particularly wish to go up to the Knowe with him. She seldom went there, in company or alone, preferring not to be reminded of her parting from Rodal. But she could not think of any good pretext for avoiding it, and he was already bending his steps toward it.

When the path narrowed, he deferred politely, leaving her a few paces ahead of him as they came to the fence that encircled the base of the Knowe. Without thinking she climbed over the stile. He was smiling as he followed her. "Forgive me if I presume, Miss Delven, but I say this as a scientist, as a dispassionate observer: you are a most unusual young lady."

"How so, sir?"

"What other young lady would willingly stay out half the night—in temperatures rapidly approaching freezing—to observe stars and nebulae? What other young lady would join in carrying the instruments back indoors, having sent the slaves to bed at a civilised hour? And what other young lady would spring over a stile like that without waiting for a gentleman to assist her?"

I've crossed the mountains, with a load on my back; fifty pounds or more, when we set out. I've descended steep, soaking wet rock—and helped Railu do the same. Why should I balk at a simple stile?

She said none of it, merely, lightly, "And how do you suppose young ladies manage when they go walking without young gentlemen to leap to their assistance at every obstacle?" She had lived almost ten years at Duncal, and she had established a simple principle: watch; listen; learn. She had also read, or at least begun, a number of novels deemed suitable for the genteel female, which she found as substantial as meringue but far less digestible. She had a very good idea how young ladies were supposed to talk with young gentlemen, the euphemisms and circumlocutions and allusions that might be artfully deployed. There was even a kind of artful satisfaction in the crafting of an elegant phrase.

She did, however, have a suspicion that she had let her guard slip a little, last night, caught up as she had been in the joy of observing. But that, surely, was all the more reason to be circumspect and ladylike today. Still, she would not pretend to infirmity or ignorance she did not possess.

"Well," he was saying now, with a lightness to match her own, "How I might imagine it is one thing. But you ask a question which seems to admit of scientific scrutiny."

"How so?"

"You imply, Miss Delven, that young ladies may behave differently when gentlemen are present, and when they are not. As a scientist, I ask how we should verify this proposition, and observe with precision what form these differences take. But this poses a conundrum; as a scientist, I may hypothesise; as a gentleman myself, I cannot observe how young ladies behave in the absence of gentlemen. One might perform some observations clandestinely, I suppose, but that seems somewhat… unsavoury."

They started up the slope, Jerya picking up her skirts where dew lingered in the longer grass. "It seems to me that there is an obvious solution to your conundrum."

"There is? I confess it escapes me."

"Why, sir, you merely employ one of the young ladies as your observer."

He stopped, laughing too much to continue. He was laughing at himself, she thought, and that was admirable. "My word, Miss Delven, you completely confound me. And you shame me, that I should not think of it. Why should not a young lady—a keen-eyed and observant young lady, such as yourself?—yes, such a person would be the perfect observer."

"She would," she said, as they began to climb again, "But I would not."

"Why not, pray? You seem admirably qualified, in my estimation."

"You are too kind, sir. But why not? Because I am rarely alone in the company of other young ladies." There had been Nielle, but Grevel's dismissal had meant the loss of Nielle too. Her wounded look as the carriage rolled away still haunted Jerya, far more than her husband's baleful glare. What Nielle had not known was that the Squire had been inclined to press charges, and that it was Jerya who had pleaded for clemency. Repaying all he could, and being dismissed without a character, would make it hard enough for the man to provide for his wife and family.

Hedric broke in on her brief reverie. "Well, that is indeed a considerable impediment in this particular case. Though I should say it might be less so for an aspiring astronomer."

She said nothing. They climbed the steepest section, where the path became a clear slash angling across the slope, in silence. Then, as they met easier gradients just below the first of the trees, he said, "Miss Delven… I should like to ask you something. You may, however, find this intrusive, if not impudent, and you must feel free not to answer."

"Please, ask your question."

"Well, it is… I am not mistaken, am I, in thinking that you were once a slave?"

"That is your impudent question? It's a matter of public record."

"True, of course." He bowed his head. "But I did envisage that you might prefer not to be reminded of it."

"Sir, I am reminded of it every day. Every day I see, I speak with, I frequently work with, those who were slaves alongside me—and who are enslaved still."

"Yes. Yes, of course. Forgive me, Miss Delven. I failed to anticipate… one so rarely meets a freed slave, excepting those of an advanced age."

"Were I of a cynical disposition, I might suggest that this is because few owners see fit to free slaves who are still capable of sustained work."

"Quite so… indeed I have never met a freed person of my own age, or even close to it, before. Yes, Miss Delven, a penetrating observation."

"You flatter me, sir," she said, and meant it. To her it seemed blindingly obvious. But then she had not grown up in a slave society, and perhaps one should give credit to those, like Hedric, who were prepared to question even a portion of its assumptions.

"No flattery, I assure you," he said firmly.

On the drier ground beneath the trees there was no obvious path among the litter of old leaves and strewings of beech-mast, but she knew with a heavy sense of inevitability that he would be drawn to the same clearing where she had once parted from Rodal. Well, I suppose I must go there some time.

"My circumstances are unusual," she said, in the most neutral voice she could manage.

"Well, indeed. One might even venture to describe them as unique. As you yourself are, in my estimation, unique. Though both, perhaps, should be less so…"

"You intrigue me, sir…"

"I own slaves, of course," he said, sitting down on the very stump where Rodal had once sat. Reluctantly, she hitched her skirts to sit on one of the great logs, facing him, a couple of yards away. "I endeavour to offer them every possible consideration, just as your employers do here. But… this is something I have said to very few, Miss Delven. I have no doubt that you understand the delicacy, and will be most circumspect about speaking of it to others… I should like to do more."

"More…?"

He shrugged heavily. "But I am constrained… would you indulge me? I know I alluded to my circumstances last night, but may I offer a fuller account?" She nodded. "Thank you, Miss Delven. My late father was a liberal-minded man, as well as a man of science; he believed much as your employers do. But now I am dependent on my uncle, my mother's brother, and he is a man of very different stripe."

She understood dependency. She might be free—she certainly had more freedom than Railu or Rhenya—but she was dependent on Duncal. There were few opportunities for employment for independent women; fewer still for those who bore the label 'freed'. Still, how a man like Hedric, who could ride in on his own horse, who owned slaves, might be dependent, was not so clear to her.

"My father was a liberal-minded man, as I say, but also a cautious man, and not a wealthy one. His estate was—is—no larger than this one, perhaps even a little smaller. And, being a cautious man, he left it to me, but in trust until I am twenty-eight, that being the age at which he inherited. Before that day, still the best part of two years away, if I do anything that my uncle disapproves of, he could very easily tighten the restrictions under which I am allowed to enjoy the benefits and income of the estate.

"But that is not all, Miss Delven. I am also my uncle's heir, as his will stands presently. He is not an elderly man, he is still in his fifties, but he is not in the best of health. As well as suffering from gout, he is apoplectic by nature; his own father was carried off by an apoplectic fit before he was sixty. His doctor advises him to avoid occasions of anger and, as a dutiful nephew I counsel the same, but…"

He smiled slightly. "As a scientist, I must question the theory of the four temperaments, yet my uncle does fit the description of the choleric: quick to anger, impatient, impulsive. A man who might easily change his will were his nephew to do anything of which he disapproved—such, for example, as publicly espousing any movement for the betterment of slaves, or evincing any disapproval of his treatment of his own slaves… I walk on eggshells, Miss Delven, whenever I am around him, and that is one reason why I travel as much as I am able, though far less than I might wish. Naturally, I send back reports of my meetings with fellow men of science, of our discussions and experiments and observations, but I say nothing of my other discussions."

He smiled again; a brief, shy, almost sad smile. "I have no doubt he would be distinctly perturbed were he to learn of this meeting, or of the time that we spent alone last night. A freed-woman—let alone one so young, or so recently freed—"

"—Nine years does not seem so recent to me."

"Perhaps not; but had you been ninety years free, it would not be enough for my uncle. No, he would not consider such a one to be a suitable companion. I am sure he would be more than perturbed were he to know anything of the direction of our conversation.

"I think, Miss Delven, I can safely presume that no word of our encounters will reach him, or I should feel that I am taking a profound risk in speaking to you. Perhaps some residue of that feeling lingers anyway. Perhaps that accounts for my sense of—" He broke off, looked away. She thought she detected a faint heightening of colour in the cheek now presented to her.

After a moment he looked at her again. "Well… it would of course be despicable to wish for the early demise of any man. And yet… and yet, Miss Delven, against that, is one not obliged to consider the changes that might be wrought in the wake of his passing? One need think no further than the condition of the slaves on his estates—slaves numbering, in all, almost two thousand. A new owner, a more liberal owner, could swiftly implement profound changes for those benighted souls. Is it, then, wicked of me to contemplate the likelihood of a second apoplectic seizure? In the light of the consequences that might flow from it?"

She considered this. She was not much disposed to think in terms of 'wickedness'. In Delven they had used simpler terms: truth, lies, right, wrong.

"If you're asking me for moral counsel, sir," she said at last, "I fear I may be of little help to you. But I am minded… when my friend and I were taken by the freebooters, we were all but starved for more than a day and a half. On the first day we were carried for hours on the backs of horses, face-down behind the saddle; on the second, we were strung behind them and forced to follow, day-long, at a pace faster than any natural walk. When we arrived in Drumlenn, late in the day, we were thrown behind bars. We were fed at last, after a fashion, but we had no place to… to relieve ourselves save in a bucket, and the only privacy for this was for one to stand before the other and shield her as best she could. And both the freebooters and the men of the Slave-market would repeatedly remind us that there was a great deal more that they could do to us and that they only restrained themselves to preserve whatever market value we might have.

"You look horrified, sir, as well you might. But throughout all this I told myself, and I told Railu, that it would pass. It was hard to believe it myself, many times, but I held to that belief… and, in the end, it did pass. And I remember it now, all of it, the rough hands, the rougher words, falling to my knees in the road and being dragged along before the horse could be halted… I remember it all, but only as images, as sounds. I do not remember exactly what the pain felt like."

"Perhaps the mind has mercy," he said quietly, clearly shaken.

"Perhaps it does, sir. But that is not… The agony passes, but what does not pass… On the day of the sale we were paraded on a platform. When no-one offered a bid, they stripped our clothes from us, exhibited us stark naked. Naked but for our chains, of course, and for the placards that declared we were Lot Four. And had not Squire Duncal and his lady put in a bid we would have been sold to some youths who… well, I leave to your imagination what they wished to use us for. 

"And yet, all that—that too, passes. But what does not pass—" She could contain herself no more, sprang to her feet, paced about the clearing. She stopped, looking out through the trees over the Vale, dappled with cloud-shadows; the same two trees between which Rodal had stepped, nine years ago, into the misty rain.

"What does not pass," she said, not turning her head, "Is that the two of us were sold. Sold, and bought, for less than the price of the clothes I am wearing now."

"Miss Delven, I…" He faltered.

"You said that you would wish to do more," she continued. "More than merely treating your slaves as kindly as you could. I would know what you mean by that. Do you mean that you would free more slaves…" She hesitated, half-turning to look at him. It was the thing that she had begun to believe no-one else in this land had even conceived of. "Or do you mean that you would wish to abolish the institution of slavery itself?"

He sat silent for long moments before he spoke again. "Indeed you intrigue me, Miss Delven. It is…. how long did you say it was since your manumission? Nine years, I believe?"

"Indeed." It was easy to remember; just a little longer than Embrel had been alive.

"Well, nine years is a good time, and many a man counts his entire schooling shorter than that. But you have not had the benefit of school, have you?" Four months in the College of Dawnsingers, she thought, but she could not speak of that, to him, or to anyone. Even Railu was reluctant to speak of it, these days. "And no-one has tutored you?"

"My employers have helped me with some things. And I have been reading my way through the Squire's library, and have gradually acquired a few books of my own." Only this year, the tally had passed twenty-three: the total number of books that Delven had possessed.

"But most of your time has been taken up with your secretarial duties, I am sure. And governess to the boy, too... It is evident to me that you are central both to the running of this estate and to The Work. Yet, had I known nothing of the—ah—unusual… your unusual background… I should have had no reason to suppose that you have not enjoyed an education the equal of any young lady in the province."

She pondered how to reply to this. Modesty might counsel saying nothing, but that might seem impolite. And she found that she did not want to seem impolite to this eager, earnest young man.

"You used the word 'unusual', sir—and I believe I have said before, my circumstances are unusual."

"Indeed, Miss Delven, but… well, I can conceive of but two explanations. Either you have learned at a quite prodigious rate since your manumission—or you have somehow acquired some prior education even as a slave."

Oh, there's a third, she thought. Can you not see it? But she really dare not speak it. Not yet. She would know him a great deal better before she risked any such revelation. That she could even contemplate such a possibility was itself novel, and unsettling—though also strangely exhilarating.

Instead, thinking to deflect the conversation at least a little, she said, "I believe I am right in thinking that the law forbids any free person to teach a slave to read and write and calculate."

"Quite so."

"But am I also right in thinking that the law makes no other prohibition on educating slaves?"

"No," he said. "Again, you are correct."  He looked at her with what she took to be surmise, and she thought, not deflected enough. Quickly she went on, "I have, for instance, seen and heard slaves who are—to my ears, at least—accomplished musicians. And I wondered, sir, believing as you do, whether your slaves receive a deeper education than the average?"

"As to that," he said, "It can hardly be said that 'a deeper education than the average' means anything at all, when the average is as close to nothing as makes no real difference."