“And our house?”
“The shop, a small one, is in the front of the ground floor, with our kitchen and living room behind it. We sell dried herbs and fresh ones, plus all sorts of herbal and floral attars and oils and mixed fragrances. Upstairs are the bedrooms, four of them, one for you, one for Ivy, one for Ivan, and one for your mother and me. We have good plumbing in Weirmills, for our people are wise enough to know it does not take technology but only determination to have clean water and a sensible disposal of waste, so there is a bathhouse and flush latrine at the back.”
“And what are we doing out here on the road, Papa?”
“Well, we’re on our way back home from Upland, where I’ve been bargaining with the Class Masters for several thousand bottles to be sent down the Merdune Lagoon in the spring.”
“What sort of bottles?”
“This sort,” he said, taking one from his pocket and passing it to her. The tiny thing was as long as her little finger, shaped like a teardrop stopped at the tip with a brilliant gem of colored glass through which the firelight glittered. “That’s what they call their sparkle bottle. The stops come in different colors.”
“So the Glass Master story is real?”
“Oh, yes, my dear. The story is real. When you must lie, my dear, lie as little as possible. That way you’ll have the least to remember.”
“And what did I do all day while you were meeting with the glass blowers?”
“You had a very bad cold, and you stayed the whole time in the little house I rented at the Crags—which is a kind of hostelry—nursing your poor stuffed-up head.”
She laughed. “That’s easy to remember. It was a dull little house with two bedrooms and a common room. I saw no one, did nothing, went nowhere, right?”
“Exactly. A dull little house with a smoky fireplace. You couldn’t taste anything, so you weren’t even hungry. And we arrived after dark, so no one saw you, and some days later, we left before dawn, so no one saw you then, either. If you wish, you may speak resentfully about all that, coming so far from Weirmills, to see so little.”
He nodded, still thoughtful, while Genevieve made sure everything she had used was cleaned and put away. Garth, on the other hand, left his bowl and cup and spoon where they could be seen.
“You need to know the route,” he said, as she was about to wish him good night. “The road we are on leads to Upland, with a fork to the right at the north pass road, a long, winding roadway to the coast, and south along the coast road is the little town of Midling Wells. If we are separated, one from the other, we will meet there, in Midling Wells, at Fentwig’s house. And, if we are separated, you must think of some innocent way it could have happened.”
“I will think of something if needed, and I will meet you in Midling Wells,” she agreed, wondering how in heaven’s name she was supposed to get there if separated from her only guide. “At Fentwig’s House. Well then, good night.”
“Good morning,” he said, with a glance at the glowing sky. “Rest easy. I will wake you when it is safe to go on.”
She went back to her cave, spread her bedding into the warm recess, and crawled into it gratefully. The recess had been smoothed, either by man or nature, and though the surface was hard, she soon fell asleep. Some hours later, she was wakened by voices coming from outside. “Get up, I say. You! What’s your name?”
“Why, sir, I am Garth Sentith.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m on my way home to Merdune from a business trip to the Glass Masters in Upland.”
“This isn’t the road to Merdune! You should have taken the north pass road.”
“If I’d gone directly, yes sir, but I stopped a day in Havenor, to buy a gift for my wife.”
“And where’s that?”
“In my pack, sir. And be careful with it, please, for it’s breakable.” There was a moment’s silence, during which Genevieve climbed out of her bedding to retrieve all of her belongings and bring them into her tunnel. From the light at the cave entrance, which fell high on the south side but not at all on the left, she thought it was probably midmorning. “Pah, a looking-glass,” said one of the voices.