The moustached face hung itself in the background. “She cannot come in this house at night.” “The parlor—” “I say she cannot come in so late. This is a respectable house. Go down to Losleib Street.” Face closed the door; Rodvard, all anxious, came down the single step, pulling his jacket together (with the fine brown hair curling on his chest in the form of a many-pointed star). “What is it?” “Can you help me? I do not want to be a burden, but there is trouble. Truly, not meaning to, I set a witchery on Count Cleudi, and they said he would have me arrested to the Court of Deacons.” He was all wideawake and grave at once. “Is there no legalist or priest you could—” She stamped. “Would I come here, to your respectable house?” “I did not mean—I only asked—forgive, this is to be thought on. . . . Attention; I have heard of an inn by the north gate where provosts never find anyone who pays. I will go with you.” “I have hardly any money.” Even in that uncandid light, she saw his face frown and alter, almost as Cleudi’s had, another resemblance. (That is what he imagines I am like, the quick thought crossed her mind, bitterer than the doorman’s suspicion.) “Wait; I think I know where you’ll be safe for tonight, with a friend of mine who is no friend of provosts or court lords, either. But I must get my cap and knife.” She was quick enough dodging his kiss to make it seem she was only missing the intention. He went round on his heel and up the stair, back in a minute with the feathered cap he had worn that afternoon, and properly belted with his knife. “This friend of mine is a Dr. Remigorius, have you heard of him? A great man to roar at you like a lion, but of good and generous heart. For the poor he has always a kind word, and often physics them or delivers their children without ever asking payment.” They passed into the night city. “How did it happen?” questioned he at a turning. “In the beginning an accident—ah, do not ask me.” She gestured impatient, then put the hand that did not hold his arm up to her face. “And now I am a witch, and I swore I never would be.” “It is my fault. I am sorry. Will you wed with me?” (The words were out; he felt a thrill of peril run up his spine.) “Do you wish—no you do not, I know it. Beside, how would we find a priest who’d make a marriage without episcopal license—and for a witch?” “But I do truly desire it. I swear—” “Oh, spare me your false oaths. Since you ask forgiveness, I’ll forgive anything but those.” She gripped his arm suddenly so hard it hurt. At the corner of the next street was a watch of two, one with halberd and helmet, the other sword and lantern, but the sight of late-walking couples would be less than novel to them, they only gave a glance in passing.