"Douse thy light," Shaana suddenly hissed, dropping to the ground. "Who is in thy home?" she whispered.

Dropping next to his friend, Blackthorn extinguished the lamp. They had neared the edge of the cottage's yard, close enough to discern the two figures within the light of the cottage's rear window, one clearly that of his father, the other with something in hand, a scroll perhaps. Their gestures suggested an argument, and though words were not discernible, the muffled undertone of their voices was heated in disagreement.

"'Tis the clerk, Dryden," Blackthorn finally said. "Why is he here? Rarely does he visit us. What is it that he is holding?"

"Come, we can get closer," Shaana whispered, and even in the dark, Blackthorn could see the mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Perhaps we can hear what is being discussed."

Before Blackthorn could protest, she scuttled south along the property's border, leaving behind the practice swords that she carried. Blackthorn cursed lightly under his breath, then followed. He caught up with her as she was inching toward the cottage along the north wall of the stable. Like she, he flattened his back against the stable's wall. "Shaana," he whispered, fiercely. "I don't think—"

"Shh," she said. "I am trying to listen. I thought I heard other voices."

A sudden roar echoed through the forest, a collective chorus of catcalls and jeers. Both Blackthorn and Shaana started, as did the figures of his father and Dryden, both whirling in the direction of the cottage's front door. A halo of torchlight enveloped the roof of the cottage, cast from an unknown source in the front yard. A cry went up, the stern voice of a woman. "Blackthorn, Lord Mayor of Yew, come forth!" Others, those of men, rang out. "Blackthorn!" they cried. "Purveyor of injustice, come forth!"

The figures of his father and Dryden disappeared from the window. "I recognize those voices," the boy Blackthorn said to Shaana. "I think—" But Shaana was already scampering away, rounding the corner of the stable and disappearing into the woods farther south. She waved at him to follow her. Biting back on a second curse, he complied, and the two skulked around trees of the southern edge of the property until they could see into the front yard. There, Shaana ushered him down behind a log. The sting and scent of pine needles greeted him as he prostrated himself next to her, and peeped over the fallen tree.

"The Lady Windemere," Shaana said, amused.

There were perhaps two dozen of them, men and women, many with torches, many crying out for his father, and all led by a tall, regal woman, her arms outstretched, in one hand a torch, the other a set of scales. Much like the woman on the card of justice, Blackthorn thought, except the Lady Windemere garbed herself in black, and her hair caressed her shoulders in silver peels. She called again. "Blackthorn! Come forth and behold thy jury!" Torches laced the darkness as the crowd reiterated her demand.

A shaft of light appeared when the door to the cottage opened just enough for Blackthorn's father to exit. From where Shaana and he lay, Blackthorn could see Dryden by the hearth. He doubted the crowd could see the frightened clerk from their angle.

Blackthorn's father, the Lord Mayor of Yew, spoke. "What brings thee to my door at this hour, Lady Windemere?" he said, calmly. "And who are these people that thou hast brought with thee?"