‘Ah, pigeon. Not my favourite, but it’ll do. Well, my dear? Don’t let it get cold.’
Noon sat down. The food was rich and hot, better than anything she’d eaten in years, and she had never tasted anything like the wine – it was a deep, dark purple, and she felt an overwhelming tiredness sweep over her after the first few mouthfuls. She resolved to keep an eye on how much she drank.
‘You have been quiet, Fell-Noon, on our way back from the Shroom Flats. Quiet since we met you, really. Have you thought any more about my offer?’
Noon looked up. Vintage was watching her closely, her eyes bright with interest. She didn’t look tired from their journey, or mollified by the wine. She looked alert.
‘I’m used to being quiet. It’s best to be quiet in the Winnowry.’
‘You’re safe here, you know. No one comes onto this floor but the staff I permit. I pay Lucian a significant amount of coin for that. You could try to relax.’
Noon put her fork down. ‘If I am an agent of the Winnowry pursuing a secret mission, what reason do I have to worry about being safe?’
The corner of Vintage’s mouth creased into a faint smile.
‘Well, quite, my dear. Are you ready yet to talk about the truth?’
The sounds of a busy inn drifted up from below in the silence. ‘I don’t know you,’ Noon said.
‘This is true. We can continue, if you like, to pretend that you are not alone, that you have not escaped the clutches of the Winnowry and are in desperate need of help. We can pretend that you are, in fact, what you claim to be – an exceptionally young fell-witch agent who is allowed to come and go as she pleases, with a mission so secret it required you sleep alone in a forest with no supplies and no decent shoes. Or, you can tell me, Noon, exactly what happened and I will do all I can to help you out of this mess.’
The woman’s face was kindly but stern. Noon took another sip of the wine, playing for time.
‘Why?’ she said eventually. ‘Why help me at all?’
‘Well, there’s a good question.’ Vintage stood up, a glass of wine in one hand, and walked down the table towards her. ‘For a start, my dear, I have been looking askance at the Winnowry for some years now – any institution that claims to keep women locked up for their own good should be watched very closely, in my opinion, but there is no one to do that. They are too powerful, too rich, and too feared. If helping you remain free causes them grief in any way, well, that’s fine with me. Second, my interests are very singular, Noon, my dear. As you have already seen, I wish to solve the mystery of the Jure’lia – who they are, what they want, how they are poisoning our world – and I am willing to try anything to do so. Whether that’s rooting around in the mud, hiring an Eboran layabout or assisting an escaped convict. Because that’s what you are, isn’t it?’
Noon looked up at the scholar steadily. ‘What makes you think I can help you?’
Vintage’s face broke into a true smile. ‘Winnowfire, my darling. Your winnowfire, taken from Tor’s energy. It could be a very unique weapon. No one has had this advantage before – think of the progress we could make!’
Noon looked away. ‘You are being kind. It’s a mistake. You don’t know what I am, not really.’
‘Kind, maybe. But self-serving? Always. I’ve spent my whole life being responsible for others, Fell-Noon, and now I would like to do whatever I buggering well like. It suits me. I think it’ll suit you, too. Join me, and I’ll keep the Winnowry from your back as long as I’m able, and believe me, my darling, I’m a wily old sod.’ When Noon, didn’t reply, she continued. ‘What is it you need? A statement of trust? Very well. In my room, which is unlocked, there is a narrow chest shoved under the bed. In it are three cases of gold coins, in five different denominations, as well as bankers’ marks for banks in Mushenska, Reidn, and Jarlsbad. With that little lot I think you’d have a decent chance of getting part the way across Sarn before the Winnowry caught up with you.’ She held out her bare hand to Noon, as if she wanted to help her up from the table. ‘Drain me. Leave me unconscious and take the lot. I can always get more. What else are you going to do?’
Vintage’s hand was steady, the skin on her palm pale. There was a faint scar that swirled around her index finger. Noon stared at it.
‘You don’t know who I am,’ she said again. ‘You don’t know what I’ve done.’
‘Then tell me,’ said Vintage, still holding out her hand. ‘Take the money, or work for me. Let me be a friend to you, Fell-Noon.’
‘Please, don’t.’ Unbidden, Noon remembered Mother Fast, her hands moving deftly with their needles, or the strings of her puppets. Her hands had been strong, too, and it hadn’t saved her. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying. Kindness won’t—’ She stopped, and looked up. ‘I’ll work for you, then, Lady Vintage. But I still might not say very much.’
Vintage grinned. ‘That’s fine with me, dear. Tormalin’s endless complaining keeps me well enough entertained as it is.’
When Vintage left, Noon picked up the wine bottle and poured the last of it into her glass. It was getting on for the evening now, and the cluttered room was busy with shadows. There was a balcony beyond a pair of glass doors, so she stepped out into a still night. The thin band of the sea, a dark strip of grey-blue in the dying light, was a reminder that she wasn’t so far from where she had started, and far to the west the Winnowry itself loomed – it crouched on the horizon like something jagged and broken. She could just make out tiny pinpricks of light there as the lamps were lit, and looking at it made her feel terribly exposed, as though the sisters who, no doubt, were now searching for her could look out and see her across the sea, homing in on her guilt like a beacon. Absently, her hand reached up to touch her hat.
‘I’m free, until they catch me,’ she said aloud. ‘Until they kill me. I can’t waste time being afraid of the landscape.’