Sean had to hold her hand high to keep it locked with Parry's. They stumbled a few times as she led him up the street at midnight. There was moon and clear skies enough for her to see, but he was completely night-blind.

"Thanks, Sean," he said. "Don't be afraid. I'll see fine when we get to some light."

Maybe she nodded, maybe not. They moved along, slowly, carefully.

"What did you see back at the saloon, Sean?"

Her voice was as quiet as the town itself. "Really bright light came from around the door and the window."

"The window?"

"I got scared and ran outside, but the light was coming out the window too, and I um." She trailed off. Her hand gripped his harder. "I couldn't hear anything. Then there was wind. It was scary outside, so I ran back in."

"You did fine, Sean."

They moved forward, the street sloping up under Parry's boots.

"I didn't know you were a pilgrim."

He didn't answer.

"Did you pray to the Great Lady for me too?"

"Sure."

"Do you think the Great Lady is mad at me for helping the men?"

"No, Sean. You've been very good."

"They hurt people. I helped. They only gave me food if I helped. I've been really bad."

"Doing bad only counts when you choose to do bad. You didn't choose, they made you. So it doesn't count."

"Really?"

"I said you're fine!" he snapped.

More silence. Somewhere close the smell of horse shit. Still the road sloped up.

"Sorry I yelled. Long day."

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"It's okay, you're nice."

"I'm not nice."

"You have a cat."

Parry said nothing to that.

"The cat likes you, so you're nice. I like you, so you're nice."

"I guess I'm nice."

"You stepped in horse doo."

"Isn't that nice."

"So did I."

"That makes us friends," he tried.

"Okay."

It felt like forever, but Parry could tell they were at a building, the reflection of their footsteps against a wall. He reached out, felt the wood of a door. He knocked. He had to knock for ages, but eventually the door opened and lantern light revived his sight.

The turnpike guard had thrown his jacket over a night shirt, which looked absurd, but clearly not as amazing as the two figures before him, one a grubby little girl he'd seen urching around town and a young man dressed in white. No, completely suffused in white, white everything. Even his hair.

"We're caught on the road, the inns are closed, can we spend the night in a cell? I'll pay."

Whatever the guard was going to complain about--the hour, the disturbance--just didn't fit with the picture in front of him. The little girl sniffled, a tight grip on the lad's hand.

"Uh. Sure. I don't have food. I mean, come in."

It was a turnpike way station, like so many Parry had seen in his life. Three rooms at most, maybe stables around back--probably, as this was the end of the road. There could have been four or five guards quartered here, but this one seemed to be it at the moment. It wasn't harvest season, that made sense. As expected, there was a small cell for holding anyone who'd gotten rowdy along the Baron's road.

"We'll leave first light," Parry said. "We won't bother you. Thank you very much. Sorry for waking you."

"The hell, kid," blinked the guard.

"Could you leave the lantern? She's afraid of the dark. I'm Parry. This is Sean. Thank you."

This bizarre exchange felt almost dreamlike to the guard, who simply let them set their bag down by the cot and watched them curl up, as if a little girl had befriended a ghost.

"Sure. Corporal Wynthe. Hello. Welcome? I mean, goodnight." He retreated to his chamber, muttering as if unwilling to believe what he saw.

Parry ached. It wasn't injury, he had no injuries--that light had burned through him healing everything, erasing scars, all but rebuilding him. But magic flowed through the body in its own way, and his had been wrenched from deep within, more, every drop of his familiar's magic had blown through him, it left a special kind of pain and exhaustion.

He picked Sean up by the waist and set her on the little cot. "You sleep. I'll take the floor. Shh, no more questions. Just sleep. We've had a long day."

She hesitated, then curled up, her face pressed to the wall.

He watched for a long minute, and when she seemed settled, he started peeling off his clothes. His boots were supple and impossibly white, soft, immaculate but for the smear of horse dung, which he scraped off.

Parry shrugged out of his jacket, held it in his hands, staring. The cloth had turned into something like white silk, the buttons were clear glass. No. Not glass: diamonds. He stripped off his belt, which had become the same strange leather as his shoes, the buckle solid white gold.

This was going to take more planning than expected. He smiled wryly to himself--there'd been no real planning at all. That was part of the problem.

It would have to wait until tomorrow. The weariness was overpowering. Plumping his white pack and balling up his white jacket into a pillow, Parry pressed to the edge of the cot and was soon asleep.