When she looked back once more at the entrance to the gallery, Dustfinger was looking down at Farid. And, for the first time since she had known him, his face showed all that he usually hid: affection, love – and pain.

Meggie knew where to look for Roxane, but she lost her way twice in the dark galleries before she finally found her. Roxane was tending the injured women, while the Barn Owl was looking after the men. Many of them had been hurt, and although the fire had saved their lives it had burned many of them badly. Mo was nowhere to be seen, and nor was the Prince; they were probably on guard at the entrance to the mine, but Resa was with Roxane. She was just bandaging an arm that had suffered burns, and Roxane was treating a cut on an old woman’s forehead with the same ointment she had once used on Dustfinger’s wounds. Its spring like fragrance did not suit this place.

When Meggie came out of the dark passage, Roxane raised her head. Perhaps she had been hoping it was Dustfinger’s footsteps that she had heard. Meggie leaned back against the cold wall of the gallery. This is all a dream, she thought, a terrible, terrible dream. She felt dizzy with weeping.

“What’s that story?” she asked Roxane. “A story about the White Women .. Dustfinger says you’re to tell me. And he says he has to go away because he wants to find out if it’s true.”

“Go away?” Roxane put down the ointment. “What are you talking about?” Meggie wiped her eyes, but there were no tears left in them.

She supposed she had used them all up. Where did so many tears come from? “He says he’s going to summon them,” she murmured. “And he says you’re to remember his promise. That he’ll always come back, he’ll find a way wherever he is. . ” The words still made no sense to her when she repeated them. But they obviously meant something to Roxane.

She straightened up, and so did Resa.

“What are you talking about, Meggie?” asked her mother, with concern in her voice. “Where’s Dustfinger?”

“With Farid. He’s still with Farid.” it hurt so much to speak his name. Resa took her in her arms.

But Roxane just stood there, staring at the dark gallery from which Meggie had come. Then she suddenly pushed Meggie aside, made her way past her, and disappeared into the darkness. Resa hurried after her, without letting go of Meggie’s hand. Roxane was only a little way ahead of them. She trod on the hem of her dress, fell over, picked herself up again, and ran on. Faster and faster. But still she came too late.

Resa almost stumbled into Roxane, for she was standing rooted to the spot at the entrance of the gallery where Farid lay. Roxane’s name burned on the wall in fiery letters, and the White Women were still there. They withdrew their pale hands from Dustfinger’s breast as if they had torn out his heart. Perhaps Roxane was the last thing he saw. Perhaps he just had time to see Farid move before he himself collapsed without a sound, as the White Women vanished.

Yes, Farid was moving – like someone who has slept too long and too deeply. He sat up, his gaze blurred, with no idea who was suddenly lying there motionless behind him. Even when Roxane made her way past him he did not turn. He stared into space, as if there were pictures in front of him that no one else could see.

Hesitantly, as if he were a stranger, Meggie went to him. She didn’t know what to feel. She didn’t know what to think.

But Roxane stood beside Dustfinger, her hand pressed firmly to her mouth, as if she had to hold back her pain. Her name was still burning on the wall of the gallery as if it had stood there forever, but she took no notice of the letters of fire. Without a word she sank to her knees and took Dustfinger’s head on her lap, as carefully as if she feared to break what was already broken, and she bent over him until her black hair surrounded his face like a veil.

Resa began to weep. But Farid still sat there as if numbed. Only when Meggie was right in front of him did he seem to notice her.

“Meggie?” he murmured, his tongue heavy.

It couldn’t be true. He was really back.

Farid. Suddenly, his name did not taste of pain. He put his hand out to her and she took it, quickly, as if she had to hold on tight to prevent him from going away again, so far away. Was Dustfinger in that place now? How warm Farid’s face felt again. Her fingers couldn’t believe it.

She kneeled beside him and put her arms around him, much too tight, felt his heart beating against her, beating strongly.

“Meggie!” He looked as relieved as if he had woken from a bad dream. There was even a smile stealing over his lips. But then Roxane, behind them, began sobbing very quietly, so quietly that you could hardly hear it through her curtain of hair – and Farid turned around.

For a moment he seemed unable to take in what he saw.

Then he tore himself away from Meggie, stood up, stumbled over the cloak as if his legs were still too weak for him to walk. He crawled over to Dustfinger’s side on his knees and touched the still face with incredulous horror.

“What happened?” He was shouting at Roxane as if she were the cause of all misfortune. “What have you done? What did you do to him?”

Meggie kneeled down beside him, trying to soothe him, but he wouldn’t let her. He pushed her hands away and bent over Dustfinger again, putting his ear to his chest, listening – and sobbing as he pressed his face to the place where no heart beat anymore.

The Black Prince entered the gallery. Mo was with him, and more and more faces appeared behind them.

“Go away!” Farid shouted at them. “Go away, all of you!

What have you done to him? Why isn’t he breathing? There’s no blood anywhere, no blood at all.”

“No one did anything to him, Farid!” whispered Meggie. You’d like him back, too, wouldn’t you?

Meggie heard Dustfinger saying. She kept hearing the words in her head, over and over again. “It was the White Women. We saw them. He summoned them himself.”

“You’re lying!” Farid was almost shouting at her. “Why would he do a thing like that?”

But Roxane ran her finger over Dustfinger’s scars, fine, pale lines, as fine as if a glass man’s pen, and not a knife, had drawn them. “There’s a story that the strolling players tell their children,”

she said, without looking at any of them. “About a fire-eater whose son the White Women took.

In his despair he remembered something that was said about them: They fear fire, yet long for its warmth. So he decided to summon them by his art and ask them to give him back his son. It worked. He summoned them with fire, he made it dance and sing for them, and they did not deliver his son to death but gave him back his life. However, they took the fire-eater with them, and he never came back. The story says he must live with them forever, until the end of time, and make fire dance for them.” Roxane picked up Dustfinger’s lifeless hand and kissed the soot-blackened fingertips. “It’s only a story,” she went on. “But he loved to hear it. He always said it was so beautiful that there must be a grain of truth in it. Whether that’s so or not – he’s made it come true himself now, and he’ll never return. In spite of his promise. Not this time.”

Farid stared at her in horror. Watching his face, Meggie saw memory return: the memory of Basta’s knife. He reached around to his back, and when he withdrew his hand his own blood was sticking to his fingers. His tunic was still damp with it.