So in that village and in a dozen more over the next twenty days, Mechella gathered children to her side. She talked to them, held them while they cried, told them stories, gently coaxed their names and circumstances from them. And as each community began to recover and think about the future, she carefully matched each orphan to a new family.

Lizia's reference to Jesminia reminded Mechella that the beloved Duchess had championed the chi'patro children of long ago, but this was a completely different situation. However, recalling who had taken in those children, she had an idea. One night in their darkened carriage, wrapped in furs against the mountain cold, she asked Lizia about it.

"An excellent point," was the thoughtful reply. "Although I've never heard of such a document. Usually orphans are taken in by cousins, no matter how remote. This time whole families have been wiped out."

"Then it would be better to make the adoptions legal?"

"I believe so. And at the same time we can protect their property, such as it may be. These children are still their parents' heirs. We should establish ownership as soon as may be, before anyone can argue about it."

"Lizi! Surely no one would steal-"

"My innocent, wouldn't they just!"

"Then we'll store the proofs at the Sanctias."

"Brilliant! And if someone wants to buy the land to rebuild on-better a business than an empty hole along the street-the Ecclesials can decide if it's a good offer-" "-and hold the money for child's future," Mechella interrupted excitedly, "the way part of my dower is being held for Teressa!"

"Better than brilliant!" Lizia laughed. "And to think you said you were useless! You can write to my father tomorrow."

"I-I don't think I'd better."

"You're not still worried about that silly note he sent? 'Chella, if he were really angry and really wanted you to return, he would've said so, believe me. I know my father. But maybe you should write to Arrigo instead. This will give him something to do."

Mechella was glad Lizia couldn't see her face. "I-I don't dare, Lizi. He really is angry with me. I haven't heard from him since we left Meya Suerta."

"Eiha, it was a naughty trick you played, but he knows by now how much good you're doing."

She paused. "He and Patro are worried about the baby, of course, but you're not very far along yet and you seem healthy as a horse."

"I feel much better than I did with Teressa."

"It's my opinion that pregnant women shouldn't be coddled," Lizia said forthrightly. "Shut up indoors, allowed no exercise except a turn in the gardens, nothing to do but knit and fret-being useful and doing things is infinitely better for one's mental state as well as one's health. But I do worry about these conditions, 'Chella."

She smiled in the darkness. "Don't be. I'm warm, dry, comfortable, and everyone takes such good care of me. Most of the time I forget I'm pregnant."

"Eiha, then I won't send you back even if Patro does order it. You're a great help to me here, and Arrigo will be pleased when he learns of it. And this new idea of yours-you'll have to write him at once."

Mechella shifted within her cocoon of furs. "I haven't sent him any letters at all. I don't know how he'll react if I-"

"Not in all this time? 'Chella!" There was a rustle of blankets and the scrape of a match that lit a lampwick. "You put pen to paper this instant!"

The resulting letter, composed under Lizia's stern gaze, was at once stiff, wistful, and apprehensive. It was sent next morning by courier. Mechella lived in anguish awaiting Arrigo's answer. It came several afternoons later in the form of a carriage emblazoned with the Grand Ducal Seal, rolling into another landscape of rubble that had once been a thriving town. From it emerged Cabral Grijalva, four junior Limners, and-in charge of doling out canvas and paint- Cabral's younger sister, Leilias.

There was no letter from Arrigo or Cossimio. Gizella's was the signature on the note Cabral presented to Mechella. The Grand Duchess had penned heartfelt words blessing her and Lizia, entreaties for them to stay safe and well, the approval of the new Premio Frato Dioniso of their plan, and assurances that the children were fine though missing their mothers very much.

Mechella read, handed the page to Lizia, and said quietly, "I'm glad you're here, Cabral. I've a list of what we need. You'd best get started."

FOURTY-FOUR.

Dioniso took possession of the Premio Frato's quarters with mixed emotions. It was the highest he had risen in the Grijalva ranks for a very long time, but it was not as high as he intended to go in his next life. Besides that, he had rather liked his predecessor, Agusto: a fine painter, a stern teacher, and a sardonic wit that made light of growing infirmities so that no one knew how truly ill he was up until the very day of his death.

Artistically, Dioniso was exactly where he wanted to be. Where he needed to be. As Premio he would pass judgment on everything and everyone-and especially on how the estudos were taught. The decline of painting would be reversed. He had sworn it. He would bring art back into line with his own genius, so that when he took Rafeyo in a few years, he would be hailed as the greatest since Riobaro.

Politically, he was also excellently placed. It wasn't quite as good as being Lord Limner, but that could wait. Still, as Premio, he would have access to the Grand Duke whenever he liked, and to Arrigo and Mechella. What he had begun on the journey to Diettro Mareia had been nicely furthered by the painting of Teressa's Birth; he would continue in this manner, doling out bits of information to Arrigo and ingratiating himself with Mechella through his art. This notion of hers to paint the inheritances of the Casteyan orphans had met with his approval, and he'd personally selected those who would do the work. Rafeyo was, of course, among them-resentful at this squandering, as he saw it, of his talents. But the goodwill he would establish with Mechella would be invaluable in the future.

There was the boy's fierce loyalty to his mother, the discarded Mistress, to worry him-but as much as Dioniso might want to paint Rafeyo into liking Mechella, he could not. Any alteration in behavior would be remarked on. And anyway, how much damage could he do in only a few years, when he would be almost exclusively at Palasso Grijalva learning his craft?

The ceremony installing Dioniso as Premio Frato was a subdued one, out of respect for the earthquake victims up north. After a solemn ritual in the Crechetta, during which he received the begemmed golden collar of his new office and vows of obedience of the other Limners, he went out into the torchlit gardens to be formally introduced to the rest of Palasso Grijalva and hear their congratulations. Normally there would have been a grand banquet, but it suited him not to spend the whole night drinking and feasting. He had another errand.

Accordingly, once all was quiet in the vast warren of the Palasso, he (slipped out a back gate and made his way to his secret atelierro. The paints were a matter of moments to mix; he need only add one detail to the figure of Dioniso in the Peintraddo Memorrio: the collar of the Premio Frato.

It was the work of an hour. Afterward, he mixed other colors and painted in another sprig of rosemary for dear Matteyo, whispering, "It was not in vain, frato meyo. I will become Lord Limner again."

Then he sat down at the table, running his fingers through the thick Tza'ab rug atop it, and contemplated the dead white bone of his own skull.

Fifty or sixty years after Sario's "death"-he'd forgotten when he'd done it, and it didn't matter-he had opened the grave one midnight. Nearly all the flesh had rotted off, so he hadn't experienced the shock of seeing his own half-decomposed face. Taking skull from spine, leaving all else in the grave, he'd brought it back here and cleaned it with acids to get rid of the last bits of skin. It rested now on this table, a reminder of what he had been, what he had done, what he would do-and what fate did not await him.

Taking it between his two hands, he stared into the empty eye-sockets and smiled. For others, this was the end of all things: a hollow skull where once a brain had been, grinning teeth bared with no soft lips to cover them, cold bone unwarmed by flesh and skin and thick black hair. He alone had escaped this destiny.

He, and Saavedra.

It had been fashionable in the last century to paint a skull into the 'Peintraddo Marria, where the newly married couple stood young and proud and wealthy, all their lives before them. The memento morta, the skull, was intended as a reminder that youth was fleeting, pride was mere vanity, and wealth could not buy freedom from this inevitable fate.

He had freed himself from it. Himself, and Saavedra.

Cradling his own skull between his hands; thinking thoughts that had once sparked within this now-barren arch of bone; gazing into the emptiness where long ago he had looked into living, terrified eyes that no longer had anything of Sario in them, but instead Martain-no, Ignaddio; he had been the first. He glanced up to the Memorrio, and for a few seconds could not identify which one Ignaddio was. Ah-there, the clothing gave it away, the style of centuries ago.

He returned his gaze to his own skull, seeing it for what it was: a memento viva, a reminder of life.

His life. Saavedra's life.

Soon. The twinge in his fingers, brought on by the atelierro's chill, reminded him that there were few years left in this body. But then would come Rafeyo-strong, handsome, clever, extremely well-connected Rafeyo-and when he was added to the Memorrio, it would be with the gorgeous robes and jewels of the Lord Limner on his shoulders.

And then, perhaps, he would bring Saavedra from her painted prison, and- -and live a life together, and then die? End as spiritless meat and bone in separate graves, all thought and feeling and brilliance and magic gone forever?

Shuddering, he set down Sario's skull and left the atelierro.

"She's not at all as you said," Leilias Grijalva told her brother as they walked through what had been a prosperous market town. "Did you see her face as she read Gizella's letter? And she didn't even ask about Arrigo!"

"Why should she, when his silence tells her all she needs to know?"

Leilias shrugged. "You said he's annoyed, but she's doing him nothing but good here. They'll rule one day. People will remember her work on their behalf."

"Her work. Not his." Cabral kicked at a stone, hands jammed into the pockets of his heavy gray woolen jacket. "He sits in his father's place, hearing disputes about ore shipments and the price of seed corn and a hundred other useless things that could just as well be done by the senior conselhos, while she-" He broke off abruptly. Leilias said nothing for ten or twelve steps. He glanced down at her and frowned. She wore the despicably superior expression she used to when they were children and she'd been listening at keyholes. Growling at her, he demanded, "Don't you have to inventory the brushes or something?"

"Now, you know very well that's only my excuse for coming along on this little outing. At your suggestion, I might add! But she seems to be doing very well without us. I must say I'm surprised to find her competent at something other than childbearing."

He glared. "Mallica lingua!"

"Find a more original insult, frato meyo," Leilias said merrily. "Everyone knows I have a sarcastic tongue! What I was going to say is that it's in Meya Suerta she'll need our help.

Especially now that Arrigo is visiting Tazia again-alone, and, he believes, in secret."

"What?" Cabral grabbed her arm. "What have you heard?"

"I had it from someone at Palasso Grijalva, who had it from someone in Arrigo's service, and I'm not going to tell you anything else until you calm down." She shook herself free of his grip.

"What use will you be to Mechella if you can't keep your countenance for five minutes and go around rattling your own sister's teeth out of her head?"

Cabral's jaw clenched so hard that a muscle in his cheek jumped. After a moment he said, "Has Arrigo resumed with Tazia?"

"It's only a matter of time. He won't like it when Mechella comes home a heroine. And you know Tazia-all honey and oil to soothe his hurts."

Cabral shook his head. "If he begins again with Tazia-Matra ei Filho, it'll kill her," he whispered.

"Eiha, we'll just have to see that it doesn't. That's your plan, isn't it? To protect her against Tazia and her little whelp Rafeyo?" She shrugged, righting her cloak. "Which reminds me-did we have to bring him along? He's got talent, granted, but he makes me nervous."

"Premio Frato Dioniso's idea. If we'd left him at home, someone might have suspected something."

"And so it begins," Leilias murmured. "Suspicions, rumors, denials- what's believed, thought, felt, guessed, known, unknown-and who's on whose side. It will split the family, you know. Those for Mechella, those for Arrigo, and those who don't want anything to do with the whole mess. Poor Mequel. It's his health we ought to be concerned about."

"No mention of 'poor Dioniso'?"

"It's anybody's guess as to whose side he's on."

"His own." Cabral kicked another rock.

Leilias paused before the Sanctia, razed yesterday after Lizia determined that no part of it was salvageable except the belltower. "What a ruin! Reminds me of Tavial's Siege of the Tza'ab Castello."

"Tavial didn't paint that," her brother replied absently. "Sario did, before the siege even took place."

"Another clever Grijalva. Don't you wish we were clever enough to paint these villages back into being? That would be real magic, not that 'power of artistic genius' nonsense people credit us with."

Cabral said nothing. But if Leilias knew anyone in the world, she knew her brother. This time it was she whose hands grabbed his shoulders, her voice low and tense as she demanded, "What is it? Tell me!"

"I don't know anything, really-" But he met her eyes, dark hazel like his, and she caught her breath.

"Are the rumors true? The whispers?"

He shrugged her off. "You mean the ones that stop when a woman like you or a mere limner like me comes into a room? I'm not sure, Leilias. But since I've lived at the Palasso-" He stopped, then with seeming irrelevance said, "Rafeyo makes me nervous, too, and not just because he's Tazia's son. There's something about his eyes. . . ."

"He's always been an arrogant little mennino," she mused.

" 'Always'?" he echoed. "How do you know?"

Leilias looked him square in the face. She said nothing more. She had no need to.

"Matra Dolcha!" Cabral ground his teeth. "Last year was his Confirmattio!"

"We talked a bit, and I almost liked him for a while-in a way. It was his suggestion that I make a perfume for Mechella's wedding gift. But now that he's a Limner-there is something about his eyes, you're right. As if he knows exactly what he wants and is only biding his time, laughing behind his hand."

"Just like his mother."

"I'd guess they're after the same thing, in the end."

"You stay away from him," he warned suddenly.

"No need to say that twice! After the Confirmattio, Cansalvio blushed and stammered, and the other two at least looked sheepish if they saw me around the Palasso. Rafeyo stared me right in the eye and winked!"

"If he comes near you again, I'll break every bone in his hands!"

Leilias patted his arm, a smile hovering around her mouth. "Gra2zo, frato carrido, but I can take care of myself. Save your righteous wrath for Mechella. She needs protecting much more than I."

Three mornings later a caravan of wagons arrived from Meya Suerta. Mechella was struggling with a heavy box in the back of a wagon when two large hands grasped it for her.

"Allow me, Your Grace," said Cabral, hefting the wooden crate to the ground.

"Grazzo, Cabral-just don't scold," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Help me with the rest?" The supplies included food, clothing, blankets, tents on loan from the Shagarra Regiment, and six boxes labeled "From the Children of Palasso Grijalva." These proved to contain toys, and Mechella exclaimed in delight at the dolls and games and painted wooden horses and knights. In one box was a note addressed to her and signed by Premio Frato Dioniso.

In you, Dona, the Mother blesses Tira Virte beyond our deserving. The children here hope these small gifts will bring smiles where smiles are needed.

Your humble servant, Dioniso "How sweet of all your little cousins to give up some of their toys!" She held up a pair of porcelain dolls with silk-thread black braids. "These are just what I need to keep the children busy. I'm running out of stories to tell!"

While Cabral stacked boxes, she called over a few villagers to begin distributing blankets and food. Suddenly, without warning, the ground quivered underfoot. Mechella lost her balance- more from fright than the severity of the temblor-and would have fallen had Cabral not caught her up in his arms.

"It's all right," he said. "It'll stop in a moment."

She was biting both lips between her teeth. Her skin was milk-white and her blue eyes were huge and she was rigid with terror against his chest, but she did not cry out. When the shaking stopped, she bent her head to his shoulder and let out a long, shuddering sigh. She wore a scarf to protect her hair from dirt and dust, and he turned his cheek to it, wishing it gone so he could feel that wealth of sungold silk against his face.

He let her go. She gripped the side of the wagon for support. He rather felt like doing the same. She was dressed no better than a camponessa and she smelled of sweat and garlic and she was pregnant with another man's child-and when she gulped down her fear and smiled at him he thought he would fall on his knees at her feet.

"I-I was told this would happen," she managed in a small voice. "But it wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Nothing compared to what destroyed this village. Are you all right, Your Grace?"

"Yes. I won't be so silly next time, now that I know what to expect. I-"

" 'Chella? Oh, here you are!" Lizia came striding up, a long sheet of paper trailing from her hand. "Eiha, you're a real Casteyan now-you've been through an earthquake! Not much of one, but it still qualifies. Now, come with me. Rafeyo has an idea."

This idea proved to be the solution of how to paint the adoptions while legalizing property rights. The boy spread out a sketch on a fallen slab of building stone and explained.

"I had some problems in composition-these will be very awkward pieces, which annoys me-but that won't matter to these people as long as the paintings are legal. In the old days we used to do a Will as a series of scenes inside a connecting ivy vine for fidelity. I propose to use the same pattern. We paint the child in the middle. The old name is symbolized to his right, in this example by the two pears in his right hand for Pirroz, which puns with piros-that means 'pear,' "

he added condescendingly to Mechella. "Go on," she said evenly.