“Sorry, I don’t mean … I’m looking for someone.” Dimia’s face remains warily puzzled, and my heart sinks. “I can see you’re not her,” I say.
She shakes her head slowly. “No. I don’t believe I am.”
“It’s just … I spoke to a man in town and he said the Lormerian girl lived here.”
She hesitates. “I’m from Lormere.”
“And if I said ‘the Sisters’ or ‘the Conclave’ to you, would it mean anything?” She shakes her head. “Are there are no other Lormerians here in Scarron?” I try.
Another shake of the head.
My eyes sting as tears of frustration prick at them. I should have known. I should have realized, even if she was here she’d be hiding, like Silas was. Not living in a cottage, known to everyone. It was far too easy, to be simply told she was here by the old ironworker. Unless… Silas said that normal people live with the alchemists. Could this girl be lying to protect the philtresmith? Some kind of servant, or cover. “Are you sure?” I say urgently. “Are you sure you’re alone? Are you sure you don’t know what I’m talking about?”
The look she gives me could freeze water. “I’m not a liar.”
“I see,” I say. “Well, if you happen upon someone who does know what I mean, tell her to find me in the tavern. She’s in danger. The Sleeping Prince is after her.”
I’m not prepared for her reaction. “What? What did you say?” she demands. She clutches the door frame. Already pallid in the lantern light, she pales so much the freckles on her nose, cheeks and forehead stand out in sharp relief. “Where is he? Does he go to Lormere? Is he there already?”
I nod, watching her carefully. “He sits on the throne of Lormere. He has done for three moons.”
“No…” Her voice is jagged.
“The whole of Tregellan is braced for war,” I continue. “There are soldiers in all of the main towns, checkpoints on the roads and city gates. People are dying in Lormere. Hundreds of them. He’s targeting the religious in the hope of finding the Sisters. And the girl.”
“I told you, I don’t know what that means. I don’t know any Sisters. I’ve been here since before harvest—” She stares beyond me, into the night. A flash of lightning makes both of us jump, bringing her back to herself. “Three moons,” she says. I can barely hear her words over the growl of thunder that rolls across the sky. “What of the queen? Has she allied with the Sleeping Prince? What news of the prince – the king – of Lormere? Does he hide? Is he rallying his men? Are they fighting? Is he in this Conclave?”
“He’s dead. The king is dead. He was killed the night Lormere fell.”
“Liar.” Dimia looks at me, her eyes burning into mine.
I’m about to rage at her when I realize that she’s not being rude. She’s begging me. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. I know what real grief looks like.
She closes her eyes. Her hands clutch her arms as though she’s holding herself together. Then she turns from me, walking into her house, leaving the door open. She crosses to the fireside and picks up a goblet, draining the contents. I watch as she refills it.
“You’d better come in,” she says thickly.
As soon as the words have left her mouth the heavens open, so I do, entering her small, neat cottage and closing the door behind me. When I turn back to her, her shoulders are shaking and, without thinking, I cross the room and put my hand on her arm.
She jumps as if I’d stabbed her, spinning away from me with her hand extended, her face horrified beneath the tear stains.
“I’m sorry,” I stutter, holding my hands up to show I meant no harm.
A sudden loud tapping makes us both turn around; the rain has become hail and is lashing the windows, leaving streaks across the thick, greenish glass. The room lights up again, thunder rumbles, and I shiver. She turns away, leaning against the mantel, and I take the chance to look around the room. One goblet, one armchair, a book left face down on the seat; she was reading when I arrived. The doors to the other rooms are open; from where I stand I can see a small kitchen, and a bedroom, a patchwork blanket over a narrow bed. I move as though to peer out of the window