“This is an honor,” Sandry told her. To Lark she said reproachfully, “I didn’t know you were friends with the dancer Yazmin. All you ever said was you had a friend with that name.”

Lark grinned. “I assumed you knew most of my friends outside the temple are performers.”

Yazmin smiled. She was pretty, with a tiny nose, large brown eyes, and a small, pointed chin. A mole on one smooth cheek accented a broad mouth with a full lower lip. She wore her tumbled mass of brown hair pinned up, with artful curls left to frame her face. When she spoke, her voice squeaked a little, as if she’d spent years raising it. “I’m honored,” she told Sandry. “Larks told me so much about you. She says you’re the only mage she’s ever known who can spin magic.”

Sandry blushed. “It was spin magic or die, the first time I tried it,” she explained. “I was just lucky I figured out how in time. Please, sit down. What can I do for you?”

“Lark says you have a student who’s a dance-mage,” replied Yazmín, arranging her skirts as she sat. “He needs a teacher?”

Sandry looked from Lark to Yazmín. Was help for Pasco in sight? “You know a dance-mage?” she asked.

“I’ve never even heard of one,” said Yazmín. “I’ve seen shamans work dance spells, just as Lark has, but that isn’t the only way they do their magic.”

Sandry told herself she should have known she hadn’t gotten that lucky. “Then you can recommend a teacher for his dancing? I’ll pay his fees,” she assured Yazm í n. “I can’t teach him myself—I know very few dances, and I’m not any good at them.”

Yazm í n folded her hands in her lap. They were covered with designs in henna, Sandry noticed, and henna had been used to put red tones in the dancer’s hair.

She painted her face, too, using kohl to line her eyes and a red coloring on her mouth.

“Actually, I hoped to teach him myself,” Yazmín explained. “You see, I retired this year. I’ve been a traveling dancer for—,”

“Twenty-three years,” murmured Lark.

Yazmín wrinkled her nose. “You had to remind me. I would have been content with just ‘a long time.’”

Sandry giggled, and Yazmín smiled at her. “You aren’t like most nobles I’ve met,” she commented. “Lark said you weren’t.” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “This summer I opened a school on Festival Street. It’s an old warehouse, not fancy, but it’s a place where dancers and acrobats can stay and train during the winter. And I’ve tried to learn the local dances everywhere I’ve ever been. Your boy could study with me. Between you, me, and Lark, we can craft the kind of spells your boy could do.”

“I think you’re the answer to my prayers.” replied Sandry with relief. “The longer I know him, the more of a handful he is.”

“Tell me,” Yazm í n ordered.

Sandry did, starting with what she had seen on the beach of the fishing village only two short mornings ago, and going straight on through the foul-up that had set

three people hanging in midair. She had finished de scribing her conversation with Pasco’s formidable mother at the end of her visit to House Acalon when the door opened and the duke came in.

“My dear, I heard Dedicate Lark was with you and came to say hello,” Vedris explained as they all got to their feet.

Lark bowed slightly—temple dedicates were not ex pected to show great courtesies to nobility. “It’s very good to see your grace,” she told him with a smile.

“You’re looking well this morning.”

The duke smiled back at her. “The loan of my great-niece has much to do with that, I believe.”

“It’s good to know she’s valued as she ought to be,” replied Lark. “Your grace, may I present my friend Yazm í n Hebet?”

Yazm ? n curtsied deeply, so graceful that Sandry was envious: while she could curtsy well, she was always afraid her knees might creak. When the dancer rose, she offered a hand. The duke bowed and kissed it, then re leased her. “I am a very great admirer of yours,” he con fessed. “I’ve seen you dance on many occasions.”

Yazm í n smiled at him. “I have seen your grace at quite a few of my local performances,” she remarked. “I’m honored that I was able to entertain you.”

“Shall I have the pleasure of seeing you perform this winter?” asked the duke.

“I have been considering

opening this place up and entertaining a bit, if Sandry would like to be my hostess.”

“Yazm í n was just saying that she has retired. Uncle,” Sandry pointed out.

“Oh, well, I don’t plan to give it all up,” protested Yazm í n. “Certainly Yd be delighted to dance for your grace.”

“Then I must arrange something.” Vedris motioned for the women to sit, and took a chair himself. “Dare I hope you’re here to advise my niece regarding her new student?”

Sandry explained as Lark and Yazmín added details. The duke had a few suggestions for spells they could try in dances, in part because: he had seen much more of Yazmín’s repertoire than had Sandry, and in part be cause he had dealt with mages all his life. Twice Yazmín made him laugh, something that Sandry observed with interest.

When, the maid who’d directed Sandry to the room came with a, tray of refreshments, she took one look at the gathering and disappeared again. She came back with all that would be needed to serve four instead of three. Once she had set out the food and filled their cups, she left the room. She soon, returned, plainly unhappy, curtsied to the duke, and said, “My apologies, your grace, but that mage my lady provost keeps has been, worriting the footmen—,”