all of Ischade’s creations. Eyes that were red, vengeful, and not at all equine
regarded him for a moment, then turned away.
Stilcho stepped back from the window, smiling. He retained the ability to see
the workings of magic but magic no longer took notice of him. It was a very
small price to pay for the ordinary sensations returning to him. Moreover, it
was one he had anticipated. He grabbed a handful of rumpled linen from the bed
and had begun tearing it into strips before he noticed Moria huddled on the
floor.
“Get dressed.”
She stood up, examining the tangled ribbons of her bodice. Heaving an
exasperated sigh, Stilcho dropped the sheets and gripped her wrists. The soft
flesh of her breasts rested against his hands.
“Gods, Moria-your clothes, Maria’s clothes! You can’t get out of here dressed
like that.”
Moria’s face lost its complete vacantness as the idea penetrated through her
terror that Stilcho-living, breathing Stilcho-would somehow get her out of here.
She yanked the ribbons free, tearing the dress and its memories from her, diving
into the ornate chests where, beneath the courtesan’s trappings which Ischade
had endowed her with, her stained and tattered street clothes remained.
She made a fair amount of noise in her industry, hurling unwanted lace and satin
to the floor behind her, but between the globe’s whine and Strat’s screams it
was doubtful that anyone in the kitchen heard or cared about the commotion
upstairs. Stilcho finished ripping the linen.
Blood would draw the bay horse. Stilcho pulled the bloody rag from his sleeve