It was dawn, and pale twilight in the family chapel of the Chidair Keep. A solitary knight outfitted in full battle armor knelt before the altar, his dark brown-haired head bared, helmet under one arm, his gaze directed to the icons of the Child and the Mother of God and the Saints, bathed in soft candle-glow. They watched him back with mystery in their ancient faces, a choir of dark vulnerable eyes rendered in pigment, all trained on him.

"What must I do? Tell me . . ." he whispered to the images.

The answer came from the doorway of the chapel. "Beltain, my son, you must do what you always do—what is true to your gut and your spirit," said the old priest, approaching the kneeling figure.

The son of Duke Ian Chidair turned his head slowly, revealing a drawn exhausted face, the effect of a probably sleepless night. And then he rose, armor creaking, made a sign of obeisance before the altar, and approached the priest.

"Good morning, Father Orweil. I am . . . about to be on my way."

"I know," the priest replied. "You are on his orders. And those unholy orders directly counter the Royal Decree."

Beltain sighed. "You know about that too?"

"Everyone knows, my son. We are praying on your behalf and on behalf of the poor girls who are sacrificing their lives—their everything—as even now they make their way here and then onward to the Northern Forest in search of Death's Keep. The same girls whom you go to hunt."

Father Orweil was a stooped old man, small and frail, his frame a desiccated bundle of twigs wrapped in monastic burlap, his eyes filmed over in the wrinkled face. Beltain Chidair towered over him. And when the priest reached out to take the knight's large gauntlet-clad hands, it was like an oddly shrunken child holding the palms and fingers of a giant.

"I've made my decision, Father. Would you have me be forsworn?" Beltain said softly. In the soft twilight of the chapel his dark eyes had lost their slate-blue coloration and appeared nearly black, glittering with moisture.

"You have sworn to your father, the Lord and Duke of Chidair," the priest said, still holding the younger man's large hands in his frail own. "This one—he is not the same one to whom you pledged your loyalty, and you know it. Listen to your instincts, your heart!"

"I no longer know anything," Beltain retorted, his expression hardening. "I—I have made a promise to him, and he is different, yes, but he is still my father. I will not be forsworn! And now, I must hasten to do my Lord's bidding—the bidding of Duke Hoarfrost, who is still Lord Chidair, Lord of this Keep and of these lands, until Heaven takes him!"

And with those words, Beltain extricated himself from Father Orweil's grasp and turned away, walking briskly out of the chapel. His metal boots and spurs rang loudly on the floor and the echoes arose against stone.

"But . . ." the old priest whispered in his wake. "But Heaven has already taken him."

He was not heeded.

* * *

The forest was winter white. Silence, except for the occasional soft fluttering of tree branches as the weight of settling snow overcame them until they sprang back in rebellion, freeing themselves from the icy burden.

The young woman bundled in poor woolens made her way through the snowdrifts. She had lost the road and the smaller north-western path nearly an hour ago, and her small bag of belongings weighed heavily in her arms.

She was lost. North was somewhere ahead, and the forest not particularly thick. All she need do was keep going, she had been told. For the sake of your family, keep going. For the sake of those you love. Just don't think and keep going; don't think about freezing, about food, or a warm fire, or even a moment's rest. Somewhere out there, he waited, Death, in his cold dark Keep.

Somewhere. . . .

It was getting colder and the morning had advanced well into the afternoon. Wading through the pristine blanket of snow, nearly up to her knees, she listened to the overwhelming winter silence, and occasionally in the distance she thought there came the howling of wolves.

A lump of alarm formed in her throat.

A sudden bird fluttered noisy wings and burst upwards. The woman gave a scream, gulping lungfuls of freezing air, then laughed out-loud at her own skittishness. She was a bit simple, but not too dense to recognize a harmless robin taking flight.

Then, there was another sound. She could not identify it immediately, and cried out "Hello? Who's there?"

Her voice left a brief echo.

And then they descended upon her. A tall black warhorse burst from the shrubbery up ahead, bearing a knight, and from all sides came dark menacing figures clad in dull armor, carrying pikes, lances, and occasional swords. Blue surcoats fluttered against metal plate, and although the woman was not learned in such things, she thought she had seen this sky-color somewhere and it had a significance.

But it was all afterthought, because foremost she felt terror.

"Halt!" the knight cried—even though there was no need and she had frozen already of her own volition, bending her shawl-wrapped head downward and simultaneously raising one hand up, as though to avoid a blow.

He was wearing a full suit of war mail, and his helmet visor was lowered so that she could see no face and thus could not judge his intent.

There was only the voice. And it was harsh, virile. Not particularly angry or threatening, but a man's strong voice was plenty enough for her to cower.

"Please . . ." she managed to mumble. "Please don't hurt me, M'Lord, I'm just passin' on through, that's all."

"What have we got here, eh?" said one of the men on foot closest to her, and neared her, grabbing her firmly by the arm until she went limp with terror. "Who are you, girl? Well, speak up, so the Lord can hear."

"I'm . . . I'm Annie."

"What are you doing here, Annie?" another man said, not ungently, coming from behind her. Neither one of them were leering nor acting like the drunken louts she was used to avoiding in her town, but the woman did not see, because she was staring in agony of terror at the ground, at the beaten-down white snow, no longer pristine. . . .

"I. . . ." She could not answer, for her breath was caught in her throat, and her lungs suddenly refused to expand and take in the next breath.

"Are you on your way to be a Cobweb Bride?" The same male voice sounded suddenly from above, and she knew it was the dark mounted knight speaking.

"Yes, sir . . . M'Lord . . ." she managed. "I suppose I'm that, if Death think 'e might want me, that is."

"In that case, Annie, you'll have to come with me."

And before she could whimper in protest, the two men closest to her took hold of her, and then she was pulled along and eventually lifted with ease to lie across the saddle. She was held tightly.

Then there was movement underneath, and crashing sounds of tree branches all around, so that echoes seemed to fill the forest. Annie began to struggle against the solid rock, the metal-clad body behind her, feeling herself like a sack of potatoes, but it was too late.

"Please, no!" she cried, "I gotta be going, please let me go, I ain't done nuthin' wrong, please—"

But the grip of powerful hands around her only tightened, and the forest rushed by.

* * * 

By mid-morning, the Emperor's splitting headache had turned into a raging beast of a migraine. Less than an hour after the Balmue envoys had left the Silver Court, Josephuste Liguon II received another urgent request for an Audience—this one from his daughter.

He attended her immediately of course, in her own quarters. Squinting from the agony in his head coupled with sleeplessness, he entered with slow paces so as not to collapse, then sat down heavily in a chair. Two servants offered a footstool to prop up his feet, and pillows for his back, while Doctor Belquar brought a foul-tasting but effective elixir to imbibe, and a hot and palate-cleansing cup of tea to follow.

The Infanta had been seated upright as a post in her usual chair near the window. As soon as she saw her father, however, she stood up and approached, then paused, dissolving into her customary stillness several feet away, waiting for the fussing servants to be done.

The Emperor rubbed his forehead while the room seemed to spin around him. He watched his daughter's once-pristine court dress stained with old blood and her mechanical movements with the same cold horror that had been eating at him all this time, and had only temporarily shifted to the background of his other sensations.

At last he waved for the servants to be gone and the room emptied. The bitter elixir he'd drank still burned the back of his throat and so he sipped the scalding tea once to wash away the taste, then put down his cup that clattered with porcelain fragility against the saucer in his trembling hands.

"Thank you . . . Father," Claere Liguon said. "For . . . coming here to see me."

"My dear child," he replied in a rusty voice, breaking into a cough. "What is it, what did you want to see me about? Are . . . you—that is, are you feeling—I mean, there is no . . . discomfort?"

She stood in silhouette against the pale winter light of the window. For a moment, she said nothing. And then, "My Father, I must leave you and Mother now. I must go and offer myself to Death who waits in the Northern Forest."

"But," the Emperor said, knowing that his words were in so many ways ridiculous. "But . . . really, you cannot mean it? I didn't think you meant it, my dearest, what you said about going, that is. Must you go . . . so soon?"

"If I am Death's destined Bride, then there is no time to lose. The world waits."

The headache receded and sobering cold rushed to the forefront again in his mind—cold, fearful, wrenching anguish.

"You would really do this?" he whispered, leaning forward, lifting his silk stocking-clad feet off the footstool so that they could be better anchored on the floor—anything to ground him.

"Yes. . . ."

"But—how?"

And the dead one approached him, and then reached out with one winter-cold hand and laid it on his cheek.

The Emperor felt an icy shock.

"Father," she said, leaning over him, while the faceted jewels in the Crown that still rested on top of her grand wig caught the faint light from the window and suddenly sparkled above her like a halo. "I require nothing but a fast carriage. And . . . I want Fiomarre—the man who struck me—to be in that carriage as I travel to my final place. He is bound to me somehow—it is his own making—and I have no way to explain, except that I know he must be with me now."

"What?" the Emperor exclaimed, falling backwards once more against the pillows. "Oh, no, no . . . God, no," he muttered, closing his eyes and wrinkling his brow, while rubbing the bridge of his nose as though to eradicate all pain, all thought.

"Please . . . my Father. You must allow me this!" Her wooden voice rose in volume and strength as she made the visible effort to inhale air deeper into her lungs. "If you will deny me this, I will walk out of this chamber and this Palace and make my way on foot. . . ."

"But oh, not Fiomarre! He is a traitor and the son of a . . . traitor—"

The Infanta was watching him sharply. "Tell me more of him, Father," she suddenly said. "This betrayal, all of it. What have the Fiomarre done that you hound and persecute their family thus? For I have heard a tale of impossible, unspeakable woe from his lips. And his tale explains to me what motives led him to hurt me so—what horrible, mad hatred in response to an equally horrible, mad tragedy. For, this Fiomarre is a madman and yet, I believe he was driven to it. He has . . . just cause to be."

"How can you say this, child, now after what he's done to you?" the Emperor said, so as not to answer her question directly. To admit to the whole Fiomarre situation—even now, after all that had happened—was unthinkable. No, he could not divulge any of it, could not compromise the precarious advantage he had with his planted spies in the Sapphire Court. Not even to give a certain peace of mind to his poor daughter. . . .

And so instead he said in his most casual statesman-diplomat tone, with only a slight pause in a certain place: "The Fiomarre, Claere, are a despicable lot. As . . . was the father, so are his two sons—three I should say. Though the youngest is still a boy, I hear, these days. . . . In any case, do not concern yourself with the details of their betrayal—they are ugly and not for your sweet, innocent ears, my dear girl. Certain matters of the world are not fit for young ladies of Royalty who will one day rule—"

"I am dead, father!" she interrupted, her voice also rising but in a manner of labored breathing, barely creating a semblance of living emotion. "For Heaven's sake, 'sweet and innocent' is never again to be said of me! Once, maybe—I was innocent, yes . . . frail and sickly in life, withdrawn and repressed, each living breath taken as though such an act required permission, and all the while waiting for the moment of my death without even knowing it. . . . And now I am strong! Dead and strong and unreal—an impossibility! And do you honestly think I will, one day, rule anything? Unless—maybe I will rule at Death's side as his Cobweb Bride."

The Emperor exhaled loudly, a sigh of resignation and despair. Looking up into her terrible pale face, the things he saw reflected there made him unable to dissemble any further, merely deny.

"I will not speak of Fiomarre any longer, Claere. Enough, do not ask me things I cannot answer. And—do not ask me why. Simply take my word as your Father and your Emperor."

"In that case, my Father and my Emperor, I must beg leave to depart the Silver Court. And if there is no blessing, I will proceed without it."

Josephuste Liguon II had no heart to deny her, especially not now. After a long pause, "Very well . . ." he said. "A carriage will be made ready for you, and you can leave on the morrow—"

"No! I must leave now, Father. There is no time, no time to waste, not a moment. . . ."

He nodded again. And then in a dead voice called the servants to arrange his daughter's final departure.

As he did this deed of love for her, the Infanta raised her hands slowly and touched the platinum and diamond Crown that she wore.

She paused briefly, as though considering her next movement, or memorizing the moment. And then her cold, numb fingers gripped the precious metal. She removed the glittering Crown and placed it carefully on the nearest pillow. And then she removed her wig, pulling at it without mercy and knowing no pain, until a cascade of pins that held it in place scattered on the floor. Underneath, her thin pale hair, ashes-and-wheat, was revealed, gathered into a small twist in the back and pulled so tightly that it was flattened against her scalp. Traces of white powder remained, dusting the rim of her hairline.

The elaborate, coiffed wig fell to the floor, ignored.

The Crown sat twinkling with lights on the pillow, and she paused another instant to observe it.

Then, she turned her back on it in silence.

* * *

Tussecan was not all that different from Oarclaven, maybe just a tad larger and more crowded, Percy thought, as their cart clattered into town along the wide, cobblestone-paved and treacherously icy thoroughfare which the road had become. The blanket of snow had melted into brown sludge on the edges near the storefront walks alongside the buildings that lined main street. And the sludge got iced over into two deep perpetual ruts on both sides of the street from all the traffic of carts and carriages and sleds that wore it down into slippery smoothness.

It was late afternoon and urchins bundled in woolens took running leaps and then slid on their feet along the icy grooves, flailing with their arms to maintain balance and then barely getting out of the way of oncoming equipage traffic. There were cries and hoots and laughter in the air together with the pungent scent of wood-smoke from the many piping chimneys. Percy took it all in as she sat hunched over in the cart, her thickly bundled feet dangling next to Jenna's.

"Goodness, what a messy little town," said Lizabette from the back, rubbing the side of her sharp, cold-reddened nose with her mittens. Lizabette, who it turned out was the daughter of a school headmaster in another town just south of Letheburg, was a fount of running commentary on everything from the density of snow at this time of the season, to the correct pronunciation of words, to the so-called gauche tactics of the mercantile class—as she referred to the street vendors who plied their trade in small carts and earned her annoyance. The more Lizabette shared her knowledge and lofty opinions, the more Emilie rolled her eyes behind Lizabette's back and then made nose-thumbing gestures.

Gloria, the Oarclaven blacksmith's shy daughter, remained perfectly quiet and distracted for the entirety of the journey as she sat next to Percy. Then, at one point during their "rotation" switch, she got out of the cart to walk, still without speaking a word.

The other young women—Flor, the sisters Catrine and Niosta, and the Letheburg girls, Regata and Sibyl—giggled and talked on and off among themselves, occasionally including Percy in their conversation. Jenna just sat humming loudly, and at one point broke out into a flat rendition of "Cobweb Bride, Cobweb Bride, come and lie by my side," until Emilie reached over and pulled her kerchief around her face and shoved it into her mouth—at which point Jenna sputtered with indignation while Percy hid a smile.

"And what exactly makes you call this town messy, Lizabette?" Grial said, as she skillfully maneuvered Betsy's reins while the stately mare plodded along, pulling them with no visible effort. "Looks to be rather a neat and orderly place to me—pretty buildings with new roofs, and those newfangled glass windows everywhere, freshly painted red panes, doors with shiny brass handles—why, I'd say it's a very presentable place, this Tussecan! Even the smell is right—right about now, smells like hot cinnamon buns and pumpkin soup!"

"No offense, Grial," said Lizabette, and everyone stared at her, waiting for the proverbial offense to drop, "but compared to Letheburg or even my own distinguished home town, Duarden, this is a provincial outpost. I mean, just look at those shabby carriages, not one sporting a noble crest, and the jostling crowds of townsfolk all dressed in Lord knows what. . . ."

And then Lizabette went silent, since pretty much everyone else in the cart surrounding her was dressed in Lord knows what. Percy and Jenna wore poor woolen hand-me-downs (even if one accounted for Percy's mother's so-called "heirloom" shawl), Emilie bundled in a greasy old quilted coat, while the two sisters from farthest down south wore near-beggar clothing. The two well-dressed girls, Sybil and Regata, chose wisely to keep quiet. And so Lizabette pulled her own stylish coat with shiny brass buttons closer together and decided for once to keep her opinions to herself.

"Aha!" Grial exclaimed suddenly, "I smell it! Yes, on the wind, there's warm stew in somebody's pot! Or, at least a fine leather shoe, eh? Or is it hickory? Or just freshly baked bread? In any case, who's hungry?"

"Who's not?" Regata said with a groan, while all around came the chorus of "Me, me!"

"What should we do, ladies?" Grial continued. "We have a long road ahead of us, no doubt, once we pass the town, since it's the last outpost between here and the Northern Forest. But it is getting late in the day, and the cold's going to bite our noses off and leave us with little red stumps, unless we warm up. We'll rest up tonight in Tussecan, I say. Who's with me?"

"Me! Me!"

"Ma'am . . . Grial," said Niosta who had just climbed into the back of the cart, trading places with Emilie. "What are we gonna do for money? We don't 'ave nuthin' to pay for any lodging or food. Really, we weren't plannin' on it. Just find a spot in somebody's barn's all we need."

"Aha!" Grial said again. "But 'nuthin' is what's indeed required for us to get food and lodging here in Tussecan. In fact, not only nothing, but probably less than that. About half of nothing will do. And certainly, since we're talking about nothing, not even money is required, if you get my drift."

"Not really," Emilie said from the side of the cart where she now walked.

"Huh? I'm confused! That is, Ma'am, I'm confused—sorry," Jenna said.

Grial gave a sudden bark of laughter. As always, it sounded a bit crazy, but also harmless.

"Here's the deal, my pretties. It may be our impossible Cobweb Bridal luck, or just—well, who knows what really, probably nothing—but I have a cousin here in Tussecan, and her name's Ronna Liet. And Ronna's an excellent woman for oh-so-many reasons, the most important, as far as we're concerned, being that she owns and runs an inn. Not just an inn, but a fine and generous inn with two stories and at least a dozen grand and yet delightfully cozy rooms, if I remember correctly—it's been ages, I say, since I've been here last—and it's called Ronna's Imperial Crown and Dream. Or, maybe Ronna's Regal Lethe Palatial Arms? In any case, here it is, ladies, right there, see this house coming up ahead? That's it! There's our free food and lodging!"

And with another bark, Grial pulled up Betsy's reins while the cart rambled to a slow stop in front of a pleasant looking storefront with a brass-decorated shingle hanging on clean new chains and fresh red and green lettering that said "Ronna's Inn." Just below, in smaller white letters it said "Welcome, Dear Travelers!"

Sibyl, whose father was a Letheburg tailor, attempted to read the lettering on the sign and moved her lips silently, while Lizabette proudly read the sign out-loud in a school-marmish tone of voice.

Percy, who could read because her mother had made sure of it, said nothing. She and her sisters had been fortunate to have been taught letters by Niobea with her "city learning," and spent many winter nights before a flickering candle, turning precious parchment pages—one of the three books that were in their house, each one treasured and re-read a hundred times, and stored in her mother's ancient dowry trunk. But just because she could read did not mean she wanted others to know about it, especially now, as they were deciphering the lettering on the sign above the inn, and Lizabette was showing off.

"Yes, yes, well," Grial said, as she started to maneuver the cart into the inn's small alley on the side of the building. "And so it is, as you can see, exactly as I described."

Just as they almost had Betsy turned around and into the alley, a very fast-moving vehicle driven by four very fine horses—followed by a groom and four spares, and flanked by an escort of another four riders—sped by the street, sending up icy sludge in every direction and scattering urchins.

The girls walking next to the cart jumped back to get out of the way while those in the cart had their necks craned to look. And then Lizabette gasped and her mouth fell open. "Did you see that carriage?" she cried, raising mittens to her cheeks. "It bore the Imperial Crest! And those horses? All purebred Arabians, no less, with braided tails and curled manes! And those Imperial uniformed knights! Good heavens, who could that be, here in this provincial outpost of a town?"

"And you said Tussecan has no crests," muttered Regata.

In moments they were in the back of the inn, and everyone got off the cart, grabbed their belongings, and helped Grial unhitch Betsy. At the same time a matronly woman dressed in warm red woolens with an apron came out from the back door and, seeing Grial, beckoned with a smile and a nod.

"Hello there, Mrs. Beck!" Grial cried in her loud sonorous voice, turning to wave, and finishing up with the cart. "I've brought visitors for you and the Mistress—all Cobweb Brides, to boot! Have you got room in the barn for my Betsy here? Oh, and a room or two for the girls and me would be nice too!" And then she added, "Now, go on in, ladies, don't just stand here in the cold! We've got plenty of work to do tonight!"

Everyone hastened inside. Percy was one of the last ones, because she and Jenna helped Grial take Betsy into the barn and got her settled in a clean and warm stall between two other horses. Then Percy pushed Jenna forward and into the back entry of Ronna's Inn.

* * *

What Grial said about work was not a joke. They ended up waiting tables, scrubbing dishes, and helping Mrs. Beck and her women with the meal to pay for their supper and beds, which was more than fine with Ronna Liet, the innkeeper and Grial's relation, a slightly plump and short woman in a full brown skirt topped by a starched white apron, a clean cotton blouse, and an easy smile on her face. Her expression was lively, with more than a bit of an attitude, and she had greying hair sticking in messy frizzy tendrils from underneath her bonnet.

That frizzy hair was obviously a family trait. When they unbundled inside, Grial turned out to have an unruly mop of witchy-wild hair with enough kink in it to make you dizzy if you stared at her head too long. But she was also revealed to be a younger woman then Percy had expected, middle-aged to be precise, and with a rather shapely figure that was not done justice by her messy multi-colored dress.

"Cobweb Brides, you say?" Ronna began, following Grial around, as soon as the girls were shown to their various tasks. "Well, indeed. They're all over town, like vermin. First, a day ago when the Decree was read, there were mass hysterics and families weeping, as you can imagine. Then the town practically emptied. Our own girls have all gone on ahead—including half of my serving staff, which is why we're so shorthanded now—while these newcomers from all parts are passing through. What a mess!

"We have at least three of them staying in the inn tonight, and I think two more came in just earlier and are eating right now. Very subdued and haggard-looking, the poor things—quite unlike your own lively lot in that sense. But as long as they don't bother the other guests and do their part in paying, I don't mind, I suppose. Though, if you ask me, this whole thing is crazy and sad." And Ronna shook her head, then rested hands on her ample hips.

"Tragic it is, but what can we do? Death's demand it is, and we mortal fools must comply if we want to go on with the mortal part." Grial spoke this while putting on a rather sooty and grease-stained apron that she removed from her own bag of belongings; she was getting ready to help in the kitchen. And then she added, "So, dumpling, tell me how you've been. What's the talk these days? Any juicy gossip for me? Letheburg's all gone dry, what with the Cobweb Bride business. They've even forgotten the Ducal warring in these here parts."

"Over there, child." Ronna pointed to a place on the hallway table for Jenna who'd just come in from the kitchen, to deposit a laden tray of freshly baked dinner rolls. And then she replied, "Yes, the Red and Blue Duke's armies had a meet over Lake Merlait—the same night that Death stopped, they say. Horrific stuff happened, and apparently they carried half the men home in pieces—living pieces!" Ronna shuddered.

"You don't say!" Grial rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and smeared a spot of greasy soot into a large streak. Percy, who stood nearby arranging clean dishes on another hall side table, reached over and handed her a wet dishcloth.

"Thank you, pumpkin," Grial said, cleaning her face.

"Oh, oh! And worst of all," Ronna said, "Duke Hoarfrost himself is one of those . . . you know, undead. He's been struck a mortal blow, fell through to the bottom of the lake and came right back out as you please, an iced-over madman—so aptly named, wouldn't you say. Who knew that he'd become the very thing that he was named? So anyway, he and Goraque declared a truce and he just marched back home to his godforsaken Keep. And now Hoarfrost's terrorizing the locals—not just on his side of the lake but here too, in Goraque territory!"

"How so?"

"Supposedly—" and Ronna leaned in closer to Grial as though not wanting any of the girls to hear—"he's patrolling the land with his armies and hunting all of you Cobweb Brides. Rumor has it he wants to stay among the living forever and so, none can get through and into the Northern Forest, which is just rotten awful, if you ask me."

Grial exhaled loudly. "Oh, my . . . yes."

"And," Ronna continued, "there's supposedly this—this—well, a particularly terrifying knight. Some say it's his own son—who's dressed in midnight-black armor and slays anyone who tries to fight through! Ugh!" She shuddered again. "I certainly do not envy any of your pretties."

"To be slain by a mysterious knight in black armor when one is on one's way to meet Death—yes, that indeed is a hoary fate," Grial said. "Though, sweetie, how does the slaying part work these days? I thought that was the whole point, no one can get slain?"

"Ah, Grial, you're right! What am I blathering?" exclaimed Ronna, slapping herself on the hip. "My sources are daft to be spreading such tales at a time like this. There's probably no black knight, and this is all a whole crock of—"

"Well now, I wouldn't go so far as to say there's no black knight. He may very well exist, and I thank you kindly for warning me and the girls ahead, as to his possibility, especially if he is liable to hack us to pieces. Now, if you'd have told me there were a dozen black knights, or a bushel and a peck, or a whole platoon of them, I would find that a bit hard to believe. But one frightening fellow? Certainly within the realm of the reasonable."

Flor and Regata came into the hallway from the kitchen, carrying the supper main course in a large covered kettle destined for the dining guests of the inn. While Ronna pointed to the side table, they deposited the heavy kettle upon an iron pot rest. And at that point, Flor, who had the most experience in the kitchen, being a baker's child, cleared her throat and said to Ronna: "Begging pardon, Ma'am, but Mrs. Beck sends the pot roast, and here it is. But—" And here Flor paused, with an almost fearful expression surfacing—"but I'm not sure the dish came out quite . . . right."

Ronna frowned. "What do you mean? Mrs. Beck is the finest cook in town! What are you saying, girl?"

Flor turned extremely pale and then flushed pink and clutched her hands together until her knuckles turned white. "I—that is, Mrs. Beck is no doubt a wonder, and it's not that the roast is burnt or anything, but—it has the wrong smell."

"What?" Ronna exclaimed. "Does it smell bad?"

"Oh, no, no! That is," Flor continued bravely, "what I'm trying to say, Ma'am, is that the nice cut of meat does not have any meaty smell at all—you know, the roasted sweet aroma that comes when it's all done and cooked up juicy an' ready to be served. Well, this piece—a very nice rump slice, to be sure—it just doesn't smell cooked, although I've been supervising it over the fire for the last hour at least, upon Mrs. Beck's instruction, Neither does it smell wrong, it just, well, it looks a little odd, is all, and that there's no smell at all—"

"Did you tell Mrs. Beck?"

Flor again paled. "Well . . . No, Ma'am. I know how much pride a fine cook such as Mrs. Beck takes in their work, so it's not my place to criticize. When my Pa makes bread in our bakery he tells us never to say anything because it's his job to know how to bake things just right and only the paying customers can tell him their opinion, while it's our job to make sure we don't make mistakes when we do the baking—"

"All right, let me see this thing," Ronna muttered. She lifted the lid off the hot kettle and leaned forward to sniff the vapor that started to rise immediately.

She took several deep breaths while Grial and the others watched in silence. And then Ronna frowned deeply and put the lid back down.

"You're right," she said. "It smells like . . . nothing. In fact, less than nothing. Wood shavings would have more smell. Didn't Mrs. Beck add several cloves of garlic in there? What in the world?"

"She did, in fact, and I helped her. We also put in dill and potatoes and carrots and two large onions finely cut up. It's all in there, if you look. But none of it smells like food."

"Funny you bring this up now," Grial said. "But over the last day or so I've noticed that most food has been a little odd, to say the least. Even back in Letheburg. Tastes like hay or sawdust, and feels like lumps of clay going down."

"Hmm. . . ." Ronna's fluid eyebrows moved in and out of a frown, and she appeared to be deep in thought. While the girls stared at her, she approached the tray of baked rolls and stared critically at then.

And then she leaned forward and sniffed.

"Hah!" said Ronna in triumph. "Now these smell perfectly fine! Come, all of you, tell me I am not soft in the head, take a whiff."

One by one, Grial, Jenna, Flor, Regata, and even Percy came to smell the rolls.

When her turn came, Percy inhaled a sweet floury smell of freshly baked breadstuff that made her mouth water, and there was an almost painful rumble in her stomach. None of them had eaten yet, what with getting the supper ready for the guests. . . .

"The rolls smell scrumptious, baked to perfection," Grial said. "My compliments to Mrs. Beck and all of you ladies who helped. Now, the mystery of the pot roast remains, however."

Ronna went back to the kettle and lifted up the lid. Everyone gathered around it, staring at the dish inside, the chunk of meat surrounded by diced vegetables and steaming sauce broth. In fact, everything looked very much uncooked. As though the items were just placed into the pot over a minute ago.

Percy saw the meat and for a moment—maybe it was a trick of the eye, but it looked pink and raw and absolutely uncooked to her. In fact, if she hadn't been sure she was looking at a separated chunk of some poor animal, she could almost say the flesh was moving, quivering, was somehow alive.

Percy stepped back, because all of a sudden everything flooded her, the awareness, all of it, and she started to gag.

And she was not the only one. Regata, already on the pale side, went livid and swallowed, then staggered back and rested against the hallway wall.

And then Jenna began to scream. "Oh God! Oh dear God, it's just like the one my Pa couldn't kill! Oh, dear God!"

"Hush, child, hush. . . . Oh, you poor dear, what is it?" Grial said, and took Jenna in a hug.

"Her Pa butchers livestock," Percy said quietly. "The other day, there was . . . a problem. There was a pig in their shed and. . . ."

"No!" Jenna shrieked and struggled to escape Grial's hold, and put hands over her ears while squeezing her eyes shut.

"Oh, goodness!" Ronna said, "Hush, girl, what will the guests think?"

"I'd better not speak any more, Ma'am," Percy said. "It was rather horrible, and Jenna was the one assisting her Pa that night, so—"

"All right, that's enough then," Grial said, stroking the wheat-colored top of Jenna's tightly braided head in soothing motions. It seemed to work immediately, as though Jenna was a puppy and Grial had a magic touch.

In that moment a side-door opened and Lizabette, wearing a starched apron, peeked in from the large dining room where she had been setting out the flatware and dishes, and asked: "Pardon, Ma'am, but your guests are waiting for the meal. When are we serving?"

And then Lizabette noticed everyone's long faces, not to mention Jenna, barely composed and huddling against Grial.

"Oh . . . my," Ronna said, paying no attention to the new arrival and staring off into space. "Something just occurred to me. This cut of meat is fresh. It has just come in from the butcher's earlier this morning. All the meat we've been using to make meals before that has been frozen and sitting in the inn's pantry in the cellar. And—"

"And it has all been butchered either last week or at some point before Death stopped," Grial finished for her.

"Yes!"

"Oh, my."

So what does that mean, exactly?" Flor said. "What's wrong with it?"

"It means, girlie," Grial said, running her tongue against her mouth then pursing her lips, "that all the meat and other foodstuff that's been killed or plucked or fished or harvested, or otherwise had its life or existence cut short after Death's stopping, is in the same suspended state—let's call it undeath, shall we—and cannot be used."

"What? But we'll starve!" Regata exclaimed. "That is, pardon me, Ma'am and you Grial, Ma'am. And also, that doesn't explain the rolls! They seem to be fine! Why aren't they also undead?"

"Undead rolls? Goodness, how gruesome. But—aha!" Grial exclaimed in turn, and quickly leaned forward and grabbed a puffy still-warm roll off the tray, then bit into it. "Mmm, delicious indeed. So then, who thinks they can explain this miracle?"

"Bread flour comes from grain that was harvested months ago in the fall," mumbled Percy softly, not looking at anyone and sort of examining the dishtowel in her hands.

Grial whirled around with excited wide eyes and a sudden crazed look on her face and pulled Jenna by the shoulder turning her along with herself with one hand, then pointed with her other hand at Percy.

"That's exactly right, duck! You have it!"

Percy stared at Grial's extended finger, while everyone else stared back at her.

Then Lizabette spoke again, addressing Ronna. "Ma'am? So then, what should we do about the hungry guests?"

Ronna put hands on her hips, took in a deep breath, and turning to Flor, said: "So, you're a baker's daughter, is that right?"

Flor nodded.

"Excellent! I think for starters you're going to march right back into the kitchen and tell Mrs. Beck to fire up that oven. . . . A couple of the rest of you will come along with me and we'll take a look in the pantry to see what other grains and dry goods we have. I'll pay all of you girls extra, on top of your free night's lodging of course, but since we are short-staffed—"

Everyone groaned. It was turning into a horribly long evening and an even longer night.

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