"This is not a nice situation," Saryth said, pulling taut the laces on his tunic collar before tying them crosswise.

"No. No, it isn't." Kite was braiding her hair to the side, forming the small plaits that normally curled up into her buns. She let them fall either side of her face when complete, leaving the rest of her hair to tumble down her back. It was good to be back in her normal clothes.

"Are we leaving?"

"We should." Kite tugged her belt tight. "But I promised Fiona I'd do the laundry again. And you promised Lyra sweetbread." Saryth smiled, remembering. The single loaf of sweetbread had gone down very well. "But we'll leave tomorrow morning."

"There's no sign of the sun?"

"No. If it were here, we couldn't miss it. There's a war going on, after all."

Saryth tapped his heels down to push his boots on properly and followed Kite up the stairs. "Is there nothing we can do for them?" he asked. "For Lyra, and..."

"No. Not in a war. The only thing that can help is ending it, and we can't do that." Pushing the door open ahead of her companion, Kite missed the thoughtful expression that crossed his face.

Fiona turned as they entered. "Oh, good morning," she said cheerfully. "Breakfast is ready." She was standing at the cooking range, her back to the table and the door beyond. Lyra sat at the table with her brother, who was still dressed in his flying gear.

"Kite, Saryth, this is my son Padraic," Fiona introduced them. "Padraic, Kite and Saryth are our guests, on Quest."

"Pleased to meet you," Padraic said, sounding anything but.

"And we you." Kite kept her tone light and a smile on her face. Awkwardness with their hostess' son would hardly help matters. Padraic glanced over them, and stopped when his gaze met Saryth's.

"You have very distinctive hair," he said bluntly, leaving no room for misunderstanding. Saryth scowled sidelong through his hair, but Lyra broke in, grabbing her brother by the arm, looking hurt.

"Padraic!"

Fiona took advantage of the pause, bringing over bowls of hot porridge and setting them on the table.

"Eat up," she said sunnily, ignoring her son's obvious anger. Padraic got up abruptly even as they sat down.

"I have to go, mother," he said. "My squadron has a briefing soon."

Fiona looked after him as he left, but made no move to stop him.

When they had eaten, Kite thanked Fiona and turned to the door, where a fresh batch of laundry from the soldiers still in the beds upstairs sat waiting to be taken out. Fiona followed Kite's motion, and, shocked, called for her to stop.

"Kite, wait a moment! You don't need -"

"I'll be back by lunchtime," Kite said with a grin, and swung out of the door with the bigger of the two baskets in her arms. Fiona smiled a little helplessly and turned to Saryth, who had taken his own bowl to the sink.

"Are you going to insist on doing something, too?"

"I promised Lyra I'd teach her how to bake sweetbread," he responded, "if you would be so kind as to lend me your oven." Fiona nodded assent, and Saryth rolled up his sleeves. "After I've done the washing up," he continued, "if you would be so kind as to lend me your sink."

Fiona sighed, and let him get on with it.

Outside, the weather was similar to yesterday's, but a slight tang of cold in the air warned that winter was approaching. Irshand was south of Corwaith, so the season was slower to turn, but soon the snow would come. Kite couldn't think of much worse than to be caught in a country at war during the winter. It's a good thing we're going tomorrow.

On the field, the flying machines stood at rest, managing to look like they wanted nothing more than to be aloft again. Kite looked them over as she passed, noting the apparent fragility of the struts and canvas, and the streamlining of the forms. Beautiful. Twin crossbows were mounted on the mobile triangles of metal that hung down from the main frame, which she thought were probably the pilot's control mechanism. Beautiful and deadly. On the upper side, a slender shaft of metal stood above the nose, raising up the control wires that ran to the edges of the wings and the tailpiece. Wires also ran to similar struts on the leading joint of the wings, which were shaped like a bird's wing, but those struts held what looked like gems. Red gems, that caught the sunlight and blazed like fire. Kite stared at them, feeling the magic resonate deep in her bones and wondering how she'd missed it before. "They're not just decoration."

She didn't realise she had spoken out loud until she was answered. "They're firegems, lady." She spun round, almost dropping the laundry, to see a soldier standing behind her. He was nobody she knew or recognised, just another of the many soldiers who populated the camp, running around on inscrutable errands, or standing guard over an otherwise entirely ordinary-looking tent. An man of average height, in a neat uniform, with dark hair that poked limply from under the rounded metal helmet he wore. "Firegems from the south."

"Firegems?"

"They catch fire easy."

"From the south?"

"They use them for sky mining."

"Sky mining?" Kite felt like a parrot.

"They sift the air to catch metal, I'm told." The soldier spread his hands, to indicate the reliability of the rumour. "Sounds a bit daft to me. You're the guest of the farmhouse?"

"Yes."

He nodded. "Thank you for looking after Jeorg." And he turned, and walked abruptly away, as though what he had said was somehow embarrassing. Kite stared after him, a little nonplussed. Still, he had mentioned some interesting things... potentially very interesting. Sky mining sounds far too technologically advanced for this world's current state. She stared thoughtfully at the glowing embers atop the flying machines.

The weight of the heavy basket reminded her what she was supposed to be doing, and she headed to the little river to dunk the first sheet in its icy rushing current. World dilemmas can wait. It's laundry time!

"You have to knead the dough as long as possible," Saryth explained to Lyra, who was all ears as she watched him making the sweetbread. He suited action to words, rolling and pummelling the dough in sticky, floury hands. "The longer you knead it, the nicer it will be." He handed the doughball to Lyra, whose smaller hands could only just contain it, and watched as she copied his actions.

"I think it's trying to escape," she said dubiously, and he laughed.

"While you do that, I'm going to put a knob of butter in the tin and melt it to spread it around."

"Why butter and not oil?"

"Butter tastes nicer in sweetbread." Lyra smiled at the promised treat, and turned her attention back to the kneading, plunging her hands enthusiastically into the dough and clenching her fists round the warm softness. After a few more moments, her interest waned.

"Is this enough?" she asked plaintively, holding up the dough, and Saryth nodded.

"I've kneaded it for a while, so it should be fine. Put it in the tray, and we'll leave it to rise in the furnace room." Lyra attempted to do as he said, but ended up standing helplessly over the tin, with the sweetbread clinging stickily to her hands. Saryth carefully scraped the dough off her hands, trying not to laugh, and it glumphed into the container in reluctant obedience to gravity. Lyra trotted off to the basement stairs with the tin held carefully in still-sticky hands.

"Thank you for doing this," Fiona said, and Saryth glanced round. She had just come through the door, and was taking off muddy boots.

"Thank you for putting us up," he replied, "especially in such circumstances."

Fiona sighed, and looked down. "I'm sorry for Padraic's behaviour," she said quietly. "He was rude."

"I've heard worse." Saryth cleaned his hands carefully on a damp cloth, not looking at his hostess.

"That doesn't make it right."

Saryth sighed. She sounded tense and miserable, clearly torn between her natural fairness and hospitability, and her son's distrust. "We'll be leaving tomorrow morning," he offered, and she relaxed a little.

"I'm sorry to say it, but I think that's for the best."

"What is?" Lyra bounced up to her mother, just returned from the furnace room.

"That you're here," Fiona said, turning to her daughter who returned a pout, knowing she was being put off. "You can help me with the chickens."

"But, the bread -" Lyra turned worried eyes to Saryth.

"I'll put it in the oven for you," he said. "It'll be ready for lunch."

Reassured, Lyra followed Fiona out of the door. "Don't forget," she called behind her.