Ramun and Cuttle had watched as the Counsel left the Catary with a man tied to his horse. Neither could make out who it was, but both had recognized the companion riding beside them.

"Why is Elion here?" asked Cuttle, "His run at the Wellwithin has not yet met its end. Did his mother give his part to someone else?"

"How should I know?" answered Ramun, "I'm as far from Relmund as you are. What of the prisoner with them? Can you make out who it is?"

"They look too large to be the Di-. the Delphin Strahl," said Cuttle, "Could it be it's his brother?"

"I cannot tell. I only saw him once outside my house. I had thought the two of you were better acquainted?"

"We will be!" Cuttle vowed, "Though at present, I admit I could not spot him from a distance."

"Then we follow them," reasoned Ramun.

When the opportunity presented itself, he would speak with Elion directly. But for now all they could do was watch; creeping along behind them in the shadows.

Delph had begun to sober. His tears were spent, his mind alert to the dangers of the forest.

"If you have finished cleaning him," Lyre told Hen, "Then perhaps we can move things along. I know I offered to help in your search for Delphin Strahl, but I worry that Ramun may not forgive me if we tarry much longer."

Hen nodded. "Master Strahl, I will help you to find your way, but first I would ask that you rest for a short while. Mistress Lyre, a moment if you please. "

 Lyre left a doll to guard him while she followed Mistress Hen to a space behind the trees.

"Before you ask," said Lyre, in an attempt to get out ahead of things, "My attraction for him has been quite abated since my meeting you. Granted, he's pretty, but it is both your grace and your beauty that captivate me. Should you feel jealous, then let me-"

"The Innate," interrupted Hen with a serious look, "Have informed me that should the witch return, our land will face grave danger. Tell me, what evils are suspected of the witch? And is your opinion solely that of your order? Do you also believe that the witch must die?"

"I... yes, well, my order is certainly not the witch's biggest supporter. But I'm yet to wish death on anyone, least of all you or myself. If his return will stop the Warlock's madness, then I'm of the belief that his coming remains the lesser of two evils."

Hen sighed and slumped to the floor.

"Mistress Hen!" cried Lyre, pulling her up to rest against her leg, "You cannot sit here, there are far too many forest creatures that would happily burrow inside your drawers!"

Hen's skin crawled at the prospect.

 "I am glad of your answer," she confessed, "For I fear that Master Brecke would have disagreed. Delphin Strahl," she whispered in Lyre's ear, "Is the Maddening Witch."

Lyre looked at Hen's earnest eyes, laughed, and looked again. 

"Dear Mistress Hen," Lyre began, a hand softly outlining the contour of her cheek, "You informed us yourself that the witch was dead. And Delphin Strahl has since confessed, that the rumor of the witch was of his making. I know you fear what the Warlock will do, but you cannot make a bride of his son so easily. Do you mean to trick the Warlock into believing they are one in the same?"

Hen's brow furrowed as she thought how best to explain it.

"I believed it that night when the Warlock returned, the same as he did," said Hen, "But then... with what I read... it does not add up. The man through the trees, he did not come from Grunterbad; he arrived there. Through the velvet water. He traveled from this realm to the other. And now, he has returned!" 

"Nonsense, my dear, he knows nothing of this land."

"He has forgotten. Everything. I have read it, and now, I have seen it. Delphin Strahl is the Maddening Witch, you must believe me!"

Lyre stared at her in disbelief.

"If that is not enough, then know this," said Hen, "The name Cuttle whispered on the wind... it was that of the Maddening Witch himself. The wind has spoken. It knows him."

The gravity of their situation shifted.

Lyre grabbed her hand and raced to where Delph was sniffling on a fallen log. From beneath her skirts she revealed an amber coin purse, and carefully took out two small squares of paper.

"Mistress Hen," she said, turning the maid in the direction of the northernmost star, "Place this paper beneath your tongue and speak your name. Hurry!"

Delph watched as Hen obediently followed Lyre's instructions.

"Why?" he asked.

"Now you," said Lyre, offering her hand to help him to his feet.

"Does it taste strange?" he asked Hen, "I have eaten her stew before, and its effects were unpleasant. I've no inclination to eat what's offered again."

Not far from them in the forest, a circle was drawn in the dirt, a shoe placed at its center, and a drop of green liquid...

 "Hurry!" cried Lyre.

"Please," echoed Mistress Hen.

"And say my name?" asked Delph.

"The Maddening Witch," Lyre told him, "Repeat the name, 'The Maddening Witch'."

The Warlock's circle was lit but no scorch was made in the earth.

"Are you sure this is your brother's shoe?" he asked Fiepet.

"As sure as he has feet to wear them!" Fiepet declared, "Once more I am left at a loss as to why they call you 'Warlock'. It worked perfectly fine for the Counsel."

The Warlock was left scratching his head. He kicked the shoe back to Fiepet, and placed Min's cup in its place. Another drop of green, and the forest path was scorched with a mark to the south west.

"I am capable," the Warlock told him.

"You and your friend the Counsel are none too dissimilar; both of you capable, and both to be feared. It's a wonder either of you have found a friend beyond the other."

"We are all each other has left now."

"Then what of this Ursa?" asked Fiepet, "The one who took my brother? He caused quite the scene at the theater before riding off with Delph in his cart. But the Counsel assured me he's not all bad."

The Warlock rarely felt such a thing as guilt. But when it came to Rel's brother, he would always feel shame that could never accept his hatred for the witch. He tried to tell him, that his bride was as much a victim of the Protectorate as their families had been. But it did not matter. He would not listen.

"Ursa took your brother?"

"Have you something of his perhaps?" asked Fiepet, "That we might find him?"

"No. He banished his name from wind so long ago. Even the heart of the Witling Forest could not speak it to the wind."

"Right. Well! They might be all together by now in any case. Let us go and speak with the Counsel while our legs have the strength to carry us!"

"What was that for?" asked Delph, spitting the square of paper from his mouth, "Is it something to do with the rumor we made?"

"Yes!" cried Lyre, seizing the opportunity, "An apology of sorts to those whose names we've tarnished. It's terrible awful luck if you fail to hurry and recitfy such a thing."

"Then... why did Mistress Hen have to speak her own name?" Delph questioned.

"Ah! Well... I chided myself quite harshly earlier today, and Mistress Lyre made sure I corrected my mistake. It does not do to speak ill of oneself! Isn't that right, Mistress Lyre?"

Lyre was utterly charmed by Hen's inability to lie with conviction. 

"That is right," she told her.

The pretty youth that Lyre had dressed with her own two hands now proved to be an issue. There were those that could not know the witch had returned; the Innate in particular. Lyre thanked her happy fortune that Delph did not know himself, and that Hen was much too pure for Master Brecke to corrupt her. Even Elion... she had to wonder if it was best to keep the truth from him.

"Pretty one, forgive me," said Lyre, "I only meant to borrow you from the Sirrup House, I did not know that another would come and steal you away. Let me make it up you, and reunite you with your brother."

Delph looked around at the densely packed and ominous trees that surrounded them, and the two kind women smiling down at him.

"You're not the Happenstance, are you?" he asked them. 

Lyre looked to Hen as though the veil between the witch and his lost memories was paper thin. 

"Did your father teach you about the Happenstance?" asked Hen.

"It was more of a warning," said Delph, "Should we get ourselves lost in the forests of Grunterbad. Neither of us took it to heart at home, but there's something about this place that I think I ought to fear it. That in this world, there is a great deal more that I ought to be afraid of."

"Then I shall make you a promise," said Mistress Hen, "That I will keep you safe from whatever that may be. And Mistress Lyre will join me, will you not?"

"Oh. Yes?"

Hen held Lyre's gaze in response to her feeble agreement. When no further assertion of safety was proffered, she accepted the responsibility on her own. "What now?" she asked Lyre, "We cannot remain in the forest without shelter. We must take better care of him than that."

"They were searching for him to the west, and to the east is the vastness of the Witling Forest. I do not know how much further we can go tonight."

"But look at him," said Hen, as though the two had newly adopted a fully grown man between them, "Can you bear to let him suffer?"

"I know of a place," Lyre admitted, "I can forge the path straight there through the trees, but it is still some distance to travel."

"Mistress Lyre," Hen began with a radiant blush and a sheepish look, "I hadn't thought it wise to reveal such a thing in light of the Innate's policies on magic. But since your own has done so much to help us..."

In the space between here and there, Mistress Hen fashioned a pocket in the air, from which she pulled a swath of material. It was closed again before Lyre could catch a glimpse of the other treasures it contained.

"How?"

"I have not the magic of the Warlock, and I cannot travel through points in space. But... at my fingertip there is a pocket realm I was gifted as a child. It comes in handier than you might think."

"A cloak of travel?" asked Lyre.

"I should think it would do for Master Strahl if you do not mind the walk."

Hen fastened the cloak about Delphin's shoulders. "You may sit," she told him. The fabric curled beneath him, supporting his weight as it hovered above the ground. "If you find it too cold, you can tell me. Sleep if you must, and know that we will be with you."

"Mistress Hen?"

Lyre offered her hand and the pretty maid took it.

"I should think I can manage the distance," she told her, "As long as you are with me." 

Lyre smiled and parted the trees. The warmth of Hen's hand was reassuring, but reality sent shivers up her spine. How long before the Innate discovered the witch was alive?

In Relmund, the Black Charnel was empty. Must was wasting time outside the palace gates. He lacked the desire to be caught stealing from the Warlock, but hadn't the confidence to return to Master Brecke without the journal. 

Brecke had his own trials to contend with. He'd been called away to answer to the rumor that the Witling Woman had found the witch. On his knees before his master, he waited for the order to come.

"If the witch was found on this isle without my knowledge, how do you think that would make me feel?"

"Master..."

"I have bided my time for a century, waiting for him to reappear. I have gathered the enemies of the one they call 'Warlock', and together we await the coming of the witch. So why, Brecke, should I discover through a whisper on the fucking wind that he is here?!"

"It has yet to be confirmed, Master."

"Then confirm it!"

"I have sent Must to retrieve the witch's journal, it is only a matter of time before we receive the intelligence of his written word-"

"What use is his word when it is his magic I require?! Find him! Confirm the truth of this rumor and bring me the witch!"