He and Arrick had ridden in it countless times back when his master was still in Rhinebeck’s favor. Only now it belonged to Jasin Goldentone. Rojer’s bow skidded off the strings as the coach pulled up in the Corelings’ Graveyard, escorted by a dozen Wooden Soldiers on sleek Angierian coursers. The other Jongleurs and apprentices, following his lead in the bandshell, ceased their playing as well, following his gaze. Kendall caught his eye. “Everything all right? You look white as a cloud.” Rojer barely heard her. His head swam with a mix of panic and fear, remembering the screams and laughter of a bloody night not so long ago. He watched, transfixed, as the footman lowered the steps and moved to open the carriage door. Hary Roller put a hand on his shoulder. “Go, lad. Now, before you’re seen. I’ll give your regrets.” The words, and the gentle shove the old Jongleur gave served to snap Rojer out of his daze.
