He saw no signs of life except for threads of smoke twining into the sky from a few of the chimneys. The manor had quite a few chimneys, as a matter of fact. The seeker buzzed around his ears.

“Aye, I’ll go,” he muttered to it, and crept across the clearing.

The seeker led the way to a side entrance framed by a trellis of rambling rose vines. The roses were done for the season, their fruits fallen and shriveled. Sweat streamed down Thursgad’s face as he imagined the vines closing down on him, wrapping around him, the thorns biting into his flesh.

Should’ve run away to Rhovanny, he thought. Could’ve joined a merc company there.

The seeker flitted beneath a green door and Thursgad paused, looking around before reaching for the door handle. It was crafted to look like the looping rose vines and he shuddered, but all he felt when he grasped it was cold wrought iron. He cracked the door open and peered inside. No one was to be seen, just the seeker bobbing in the air, waiting for him. He stepped inside and found himself in a large kitchen. The seeker sped off.

Thursgad had to run to catch up, passing ovens and tables and pantries, then into a formal dining room with a lengthy table. He had no time to pause to take in the details of the rich furnishings for the seeker floated out of the dining room into a wide corridor. There it hovered for a moment.

Entry hall for main entrance, Thursgad thought. Sunshine flowed in through the windows that framed the grand doors. Opposite the doors, stairs climbed to upper levels. Across the hall from the dining room was a parlor.

Which way? he wondered.

As if in answer, the seeker pulsated and whisked up the stairs. Thursgad placed one foot on the first step and his hand on the railing when someone behind him cleared her throat.

“Look, sister, we’ve a guest just in time for tea.”

“I’m not blind yet. I can see him very well for myself.”

Slowly, very slowly, Thursgad removed hand from the railing and foot from the step, and turned around. Two elderly ladies stood there in the light of the entry hall gazing at him. The taller thin one in green scowled at him and the shorter, plump one, wearing a sort of orange dress, smiled kindly.

“He is pungent,” the thin one said.

“Yes, and dirty.”

The thin one cast the plump one a withering look. “Pungency suggests dirt, sister. Letitia will not be pleased, but he’s no time to bathe. Tea is ready now.”

Thursgad glanced around for this Letitia to appear, but she did not.

“We shall overcome his scruffy appearance,” the plump one said, “and we shall be brave in the face of Letitia’s wrath.” She walked toward him. He flinched as though she carried some weapon, though of course she possessed nothing of the sort. She took his arm and started to lead him into the parlor, her sister following behind them, cane tapping on the floor. “Now, young man, you must tell us all about yourself.”

Thursgad sweated as he’d never sweated before. The porcelain teacup and saucer, decorated with dainty flowers, were slippery in his hands. He sat perched on the edge of a plush chair and sun rippled through the leaded windows, catching in his eye. The two ladies, one of whom was called Miss Bunch, and the other Bay or Miss Bay or Miss Bayberry—it all rather confused him—kept up a chatter that filled his ears with noise. He wondered where the seeker was, how he’d allowed himself to be drawn into the parlor for tea, and how he would get away from the ladies and find the seeker. Would he have to kill them?

“Pardon?” he said when one addressed him and he hadn’t been paying attention.

“Your name, young sir,” the Bunch one said. “And where you are from. You never told us.”

“Thursgad. My name’s Thursgad.”

“Such a strong name, isn’t it Bay?”

The thin one shrugged, her expression sour. Thursgad sweated.

“And where are you from?”

“Mirwell Province.”

The two women exchanged glances. A droplet of sweat rolled down Thursgad’s nose and plopped into his tea.

“I thought his accent was of the western parts,” Miss Bay said.

“It is so long since we’ve had a visitor from that region. I’m surprised you recognized it.”

Miss Bay’s expression turned to one of superiority and she sipped her tea. Thursgad still hadn’t touched his.

“And what brings you this way?” Miss Bunch asked.

Thursgad cleared his throat, trying to think fast. “Hunter. That is, I’m hunting.” Pleased with his own answer, if not the delivery, he relaxed a tad.

“With a sword?” Miss Bay demanded. “It’s not even a hunting sword.”

Thursgad looked down as though seeing his sword for the first time. It was his serviceable sidearm issued to him when he first joined the Mirwellian provincial militia.

“Uh, for–for brigands,” he said. “Aye, brigands.”

“Sensible,” Miss Bunch said to her sister. Then, “Young man, you’ve eaten nothing. Poor Letitia will be most affronted if you don’t try some of her delicious treats.”

Thursgad’s stomach grumbled in response. It seemed like he had not eaten in days, so he took a tea cake into his calloused hand, the lines on his fingers and palm etched with dirt and pine pitch, and ate all the buttery, sugary goodness. Next he tried a finger sandwich and then a slice of pound cake. He tried this and that until there was little more than crumbs left on the platter, the sisters watching him in amazement. He brushed powdered sugar from the bristles on his chin, and swigged down the last of his tea.