Chapter 95 Searching

• *Lazlo*
• The sky begins to lighten as I turn onto the narrow lane that cuts through the outer quarter of Lunemar, the blush of mid-morning brushing the rooftops and dappling puddles beneath my horse’s hooves.
• The first house belongs to a weaver, his hands stained with dye and his three daughters lined up like soldiers beneath the crooked beams of the kitchen ceiling. The eldest curtsies too deeply, nearly falling forward in her eagerness. Their mother wrings her hands and says her girls have always been “fond of dancing,” and surely it must’ve been one of them.