Mouse leaned against the stone of the open window, looking out into the darkness. Had she not been able to guess by the number of stars lighting the night sky, the quietness of the castle and the emptiness of the hallways were enough to tell of the late hour.

She looked up at the moon, thinking of Adalbert’s tireless efforts to perfect the shape of the still, silvery lake that hung in the sky, never satisfied that the edges were quite round enough or the surface quite smooth enough for his beloved Malte.

Bucket by bucket he would fill the lake, only to then look upon his work in dissatisfaction, and bucket by bucket he would remove the water, so that he might carve out the edges and smooth down the sides a bit more.

The moon was half-full now, but whether Adalbert was filling the lake or emptying it, Mouse could not say.

The night air was warm upon her face as she gazed out of the window, studying first the stars before looking out across the grounds that, though shrouded in darkness, were so familiar to her that she need not see them in the light of day to know where every tree stood and every stone lay.

Perhaps, she thought to herself, it was time she began planning her escape. She could scale the southern wall and make her way to the piked gate, darting through Sallowman’s alley before disappearing down the cobbled streets of the village outside, just as she had imagined a hundred times.

No, she thought, she would go to the stables. North she would ride of the back of noble Passavant, on and on and on until at last she crossed the mighty Manau. She would go to Kingfishers’ bridge and find the great stone house that stood beside it, the one with a half-moon painted on the door.

There, she would find her Foilunder, waiting for her just as he had promised, and never again would she return south.

All she need do was wait for Jasper to be freed, she thought, and then she might free herself.

The moon as my witness, she said to herself, I will leave this place, and with it, every wretched though and painful memory.

It was a pleasant thought, one that steeled her strength against the tribulations she now faced. And it was with a sigh and a heart made ever so slightly lighter by the notion that she turned away from the window and continued down the hall.

When she arrived at the door of her chambers, she came in to find a maid replacing the water in her basin.

She smiled at the woman, who bowed in return, and allowed herself to fall into the silk upholstered chair that stood opposite her table to begin the tiresome task of pulling the pins from her matted hair.

The maid quickly put down her work things, wiping her hands on her apron, and came to help her.

“Please, allow me, my lady,” she said, taking up the task herself.

“Thank you,” Mouse said with an appreciative smile, letting her arms fall to her sides.

Mouse was not always lucky enough to have a maid and was often left to her own preparations. This made her all the more grateful for the woman now, especially seeing as how her long dark tresses had become something of a mess, pressed, as they had been, against the damp ragged stone of the wall where she had fallen asleep earlier.

Mouse reached across to the table and took up the little tafl piece, holding it in her hands and tracing her thumb along the curve of the bow.

How far things had come from the way they had been at Silver Lake, she thought to herself. What joys she had known there, and now, what miseries.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember the way the fog had looked as it clung to the open fields, the way the morning dew had threatened to dampen her shoes as she stood in the bailey with a bow in her hand, waiting for Torben to chance through and call out to her.

She tried to recall the sound of Elke’s feet pattering lightly against the steps of the keep as she ran down meet her, her tiny fingers straightening the bow of her apron as she crossed to Mouse with a smile.

She thought of the lake and the trees and the cloudless blue sky. She thought of the Cherith birds flying overhead and dancing about the courtyard. She thought of the pink and purple mallows that sprung up across the field, the place where she had left her fears to die—or so she had told herself.

It all felt little more than a dream now, a glimpse into a life that would never really be hers.

She looked up at her reflection in the glass, the dim light casting ghastly shadows beneath her eyes. This was who she really was, not the carefree girl of Silver Lake, but a girl haunted by her own foolishness, a girl trapped in a world where the only thing worse than the thought of someone coming for your head was the idea that they might take your friend’s first.

Perhaps she had it all wrong, though, Mouse entertained. Perhaps the arrows loosed upon them at Silver Lake had not been meant for her as Ludger had led her to believe.

And perhaps Johannes was not trying to cover some evil misdeed, some plot to harm her, but was only trying to teach her a lesson and would soon call the whole thing off.

After all, what reason could the nobleman have to wish her dead? It was nearly as absurd as the idea of him wishing harm to the Empress herself.

But still, try as she might, she could not forget the look of shock she had seen on the nobleman’s face when she had returned from Silver Lake, as if he had been surprised to see her—surprised to see her alive, a voice in the back of her mind whispered—and the eeriness it now conjured was enough to send a chill down her spine.

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Mouse reached across and placed the tafl piece back upon the table, staring at it, watching the way the shape of the thing seemed to change in the flickering light. At one moment, it appeared strange and misshapen, distorted by the shadows that sprung up around it, as if it were some grisly, graven creature, while the next moment, the wood glowed softly, the same familiar shape that brought her comfort every time she held it.

It was while she watched this transformation take place that something suddenly occurred to her, something she had been too distracted to notice earlier.

Her brow knit itself together as she turned her gaze to the hearth that stood on the near side of the room.

“Why has the fire been lit?” she asked, addressing the maid who was still busy wresting the pins from the tangles of her hair.

The maid crossed to the table and dropped a pin into the tray.

“In case of a draft, my lady,” she replied, coming now to Mouse’s other side.

But it’s the middle of summer, thought Mouse. Were not many in the castle still sleeping with their windows open this time of year?

Mouse stared into the flames licking brightly against the walls of the hearth.

“Have all the fires been lit?” she asked, the wheels of her mind trying to work out why her hearth that had stood many weeks empty should now suddenly be alight.

“As far as I know, my lady,” the maid replied, replacing the last of the pins into the tray and looking for a comb.

A strange feeling of unease was beginning to tease at the corners of Mouse’s mind.

“Who gave the order?” she asked, watching the maid in the glass as she lifted a scrap of blue linen and took up the comb she found lying beneath it.

“I beg your pardon, my lady?” the maid said as she brought the comb over to Mouse’s hair.

“To have the fires lit,” replied Mouse. “Who gave the order?”

“The chamberlain, like as not,” the maid answered with a shrug, tugging her comb carefully through Mouse’s hair. “But I’m afraid I do not know, my lady.”

Of course she did not know, Mouse chided herself. A handmaiden would not be the one to light the fires. But still, she had the sense that something was not right.

She had stood herself at the window not long ago, feeling the warm summer air on her face without so much as a breeze to disrupt it.

“Please forgive me if this is rather an odd question,” Mouse said with a nervous laugh, “but there are no apartments near the south tower, are there? No living quarters where the fires might be lit?”

Mouse watched the maid in the glass as she paused to think for a moment, trying to swallow down the sense of dread that was beginging to rise inside her chest.

“None that I know of, my lady,” she said. “That is, I cannot say whether or not a fire might be lit, but—"

Mouse lifted her hand to the maid’s, staying her comb.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, “but I’m afraid I must go.”

By the time Mouse arrived at the south tower, her heart was all but racing. The smell of smoke had grown so strong that there was no denying that a fire had been lit, and had Mouse’s worst fears not been confirmed by the sight of the delicate grey tendrils drifting out from the door to the tower itself, they certainly were by the bell that began now to ring.

A dozen or so guard stood a few feet away, their lack of urgency hinting, or so Mouse hoped, that all within the tower had already been safely removed.

“Where is Jasper?” Mouse asked, running up to the first guardsman she was able to reach. “The stable boy who was in the tower. Is he alright?”

The guardsman shook her hand away in annoyance, immune to the desperation in her voice.

“It’s not for me to say,” he replied in perturbation. “If you’ve questions, you can take them to the Captain.”

Mouse turned and looked about, searching for men’s faces for Ulrich’s, but she could not find him. She was about to prevail her nuisance upon the guard a second time, when at last, she saw him walking slowly down the hallway, engaged in conversation with who appeared to be Lord Rambert.

She took a few anxious steps in their direction, eager for the soonest opportunity to make her inquiry but wary of interrupting, until the Marshal seemed to take notice of her and shortly after made his exit.

“Where is he?” Mouse asked, running up to the Captain the moment the Marshal had gone. “Is he alive?”

“I can only assume you mean Jasper,” Ulrich replied. “In which case, I can confirm that he is indeed alive and that has been removed to a location where he will remain safe.”

Moused allowed herself a sigh of relief.

“Does anyone else know where he is?” she asked, casting a glance over her shoulder at the group of guards who stood talking near the tower entrance.

“Certainly my men know,” Ulrich replied.

Mouse nodded. She supposed that must be allowed, or there would be no one to watch the boy. She twisted her fingers together nervously.

“Can you be certain that he is safe where he is?” she pressed. “Given the obvious attempt you have just witnessed on his life.”

Ulrich’s hazel eyes fixed themselves upon Mouse’s.

“Has it not occurred you,” he said, “that the fire might just as likely have been started with an object of freeing the boy as killing him?”

Mouse scoffed and shook her head.

“But he is not free, is he?” she protested.

“Nor is he dead,” replied the Captain.

Mouse let out another sigh, but this was one of frustration.

“You cannot really believe that there is any question as to Jasper’s innocence, can you?” she asked. “He is a stable boy who has been all his life at Kriftel. His mother is a scullery here, for god’s sake. You cannot tell me you think him some sort of conspirator.”

She looked into Ulrich’s face, hoping the man might see reason.

“It does not matter what I think,” he answered. “All that matters is what can be proven, either to forward his guilt or abolish it.”

An incredulous laugh escaped Mouse’s lips.

“So, your stubborn pride will not allow that you have taken an innocent man into custody under the word of a scoundrel and a liar and that every moment you hold him captive only serves to increase the threat upon his life?”

Mouse could see Ulrich’s jaw clench under the maintenance of his forbearance. She was pushing him further than she knew she should, but could not help but speak her mind. After all, it might be the very thing to stay Jasper from the gallows.

“The truth will come to light one way or another,” the Captain said. “It may take time, but if Jasper is innocent, he has little to fear.”

“Little to fear?” cried Mouse, her voice rising in indignation. “He is a stable boy! He has everything to fear and everything to lose!”

She looked at the Captain and shook her head.

It was so painfully apparent to Mouse that whoever had seen to the dead man from Silver Lake was at work once again and would not stop until the stable boy had met a similar end. How Ulrich himself could fail to see that was entirely beyond her comprehension.

“What would you have me do?” the Captain asked.

“Free him,” said Mouse at once. “Free him before it is too late.”

The Captain sighed.

“You know I cannot do that,” he said.

“No,” said Mouse, “you will not.”

Ulrich looked at her, his countenance immovable, but Mouse could see something in his gold-flecked eyes, something he was hiding.

What was it? she wondered as she studied his face. It looked almost something like pain, perhaps, or sorrow.

Or maybe, she wondered, it was frustration she saw there, tucked into the lines around his eyes, guilt and anger, like that which she carried herself. Helplessness.

She looked at Ulrich long and hard, until she felt she could not any longer, and then, unanswered, she turned and left.

Mouse was tired of being small and powerless. She was tired of being full of anger and torment. She was tired of suffering and watching others suffer.

She was tired of being Mouse.

Perhaps, she thought as she walked down the long, dim hallway, it was time to become someone else.