Charwin Swillden, recently released on parole from the Isthimus Memorial Prison in Windpeak, moved slowly through the streets out of habit. Even if Lord Blackriver had witnessed him swear never to lie or cheat another man of his money, the men he'd cheated definitely hadn't witnessed it. He was far from the high plains where he had once worked, but a con man could never be too careful.

A shroud of darkness covered the town of Valley Vale, only broken by the glowing window of one tavern where yellow lantern glow spilled out into the gravel street. Charwin had always loved the night, but then, he was used to larger towns that stayed up until the dawn. This darkness felt much more oppressive, and too quiet. He quickly murmured the words to a simple songspell, creating a mote of purple light on the tip of his finger. As the words escaped his mouth, his shoulder itched and prickled where Lord Blackriver had put his rust-red hound mark. So, he thought. Perhaps that mark isn't just a simple criminal's brand. And perhaps that oath wasn't just a simple promise. He should have known. Words in the Land of a Million Songs always had power.

He extinguished the light and made his way to the tavern. The sign above the door said Coinflip Inn with the image of a silver dollar spinning in the air. How ironic. Sleight of hand had always been Charwin's specialty. He chuckled and headed inside. Although he had no money to pay for a room, he could pretend. He was good enough at that.

The late-night crowd here consisted mostly of older folks near passed out from their drinks, chatting and laughing and grumbling about the weather. A few younger lads took turns performing famous songspells to the sound of a player piano. Charwin pushed between a few of the patrons to get to the bar. "Hello?" he called.

The girl at the bar turned around to look at him curiously. She was around his age, maybe a bit older, and had a pretty face with red hair and strangely pale skin. Back in his old life, he might have taken her to a gambling house for luck.

"I'd like a room for the night," he said, "and a mug of your cheapest ale." No whiskey to be found here. He missed whiskey.

She continued to stare at him, pointing over her shoulder to the list of prices carved into a slate on the wall. Odd girl. Too quiet.

"All right if I pay later?" he asked. As he said it, Lord Blackriver's mark burned painfully in his shoulder, and he flinched. Even a lie by omission was too much for the oath, it seemed.

The girl shook her head and looked at him expectantly. That was when he noticed her eyes were shot with red as though from crying.

"Are you okay?" asked Charwin. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

Her eyes brightened--perhaps she didn't get asked that question enough. She pointed to her throat, then shook her head. Then she opened her mouth and only a high, windy whine came out. Now Charwin understood. She couldn't speak at all. A person without a voice couldn't cast songspells to call on their innate magic. Any child born without a voice would be seen by their family as a curse, a shameful thing to be kept hidden away. No wonder she was pale.

"Oh," he said, because he wasn't sure what else to say. "Sorry about that. I'm Charwin Swillden. And you are?"

She motioned for him to hold out his hand. With her finger, she traced letters on his palm: Jolie.

"Nice to meet you, Jolie." Charwin's shoulder tingled with a warm expectance--it hadn't forgotten about the little fact he'd conveniently misplaced. "I'm so sorry for bothering you. See," he admitted, "I don't actually have any money at the moment. So I'll see myself out, and you have a good night."

Right before he turned to leave, she tapped on the bar to get his attention. She gestured to the price slate, then shook her head. Her eyes were full of pity.

"Sorry," said Charwin again. "I'm not in the business of taking charity." A little voice inside him wondered where that had come from. Conning isn't the same as charity, he thought. Every silver dollar I ever stole was earned, unfair and square. I didn't luck into anything.

Jolie shook her head again. She pointed at him, then at the bar. Slowly, it dawned on him what she meant.

"Me," he said incredulously. "Work here? For room and board?"

She nodded excitedly. For the first time since long before he entered Isthimus Prison, Charwin began to see a path ahead of him that didn't involve lying, stealing, conning, or cheating. The beginning of a smile crossed his face--just small for now, but hopefully it would grow later.

"Where can I start?"

Most nights these days, as Charwin wiped down the sticky bar and tables around midnight, he felt a strange sense of calm. Repetitive tasks forced him to relax, reminding him that he wasn't on the wrong side of the law anymore. Not every step had to be careful and calculated, and not every stranger had to be sized up on sight.

He didn't see Jolie around much--she disappeared when the bar closed, a silent, pale ghost fading from the tavern as quietly as she arrived. Despite the obvious brand on his arm, the Siscylla family never asked questions about his past. He appreciated them for that.

Tonight, with the crickets chirping and a layer of clouds surrounding the pine trees, he thought back to his childhood for the first time in years. When he left home to join Sting's crew--first as a runner, then as a swindler--his mother had taken up spirituality in an unhealthy manner. He still remembered the sound of her desperate prayers echoing through the house, denying herself food and water in the name of the weft of destiny.

It was years before he realized why she prayed. He was her divine blessing, her only son, and she had spent every day asking fate itself to divert his path away from lying and cheating.

"Sorry I never looked back, Ma," he mumbled as he finished stacking pewter cups above the bar. "It's like you said: a prayer doesn't die when its weaver does. A prayer doesn't die till it comes true or the waters rise."

Something clattered to the barroom floor. He turned to see Jolie standing there, a sheepish look on her face as she stared down at a fallen chair.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked.

She picked up the chair and looked at Charwin expectantly. He followed her outside, around the inn to the storage house. Below the herb-scented timber shed was a set of earthen stairs he'd never noticed before--carved into the ground like the entrance to a Windpeak speakeasy, leading to a thick wooden door with iron hinges. The voiceless girl darted down the stairs as quietly as a shooting star and held the door open for him.

A wave of dust and mildew filled his nose. Inside was a foxhole more like Sting's moonshine hidey-holes than his fanciful speakeasies. One broken bed sat in the corner, covered with a patchy quilt. Tucked beneath it, a little wooden chest brimmed full of papers and trinkets. A single candle poked out from a nook in the wall, ordinary fire, not weaver's fire. A drop of water plunked down from the ceiling. The smell of dirty soil mixed inescapably into the more pleasurable scents of salted food and beer stored in barrels upstairs.

"You live here?" he asked. He couldn't imagine it was comfortable. Jolie nodded and gestured wildly around--her throat, the house, the stairs.

He had always thought he was sharp, but it took quite a while to puzzle her meaning out in his mind. "Because you can't speak or weave songs," he exclaimed at last, proud of himself for figuring it out. "They don't want you sleeping in the same house as them because it's bad luck, so they put you up in here at night." As he realized what he had just said, his pride turned into an expression of horror. "Jolie, that's terrible. You'd catch cold or dust sickness all the time."

She nodded emphatically. Charwin thought again of his mother, who only ever saw him as a blessing even while he ignored her prayers. Meanwhile, Jolie's family saw her as a curse, and she had to live with it every day.

"But why bring me here now?" he asked.

She pointed again to the door, to its iron padlock that would have made Lord Blackriver and his prison wardens proud. Clearly it had slipped free tonight, allowing her to escape. Charwin didn't fully understand until she gestured to the hound brand on his shoulder and smiled, a wild light shining in her eyes.

He was a thief. She wanted to learn how to pick the lock.

In that moment, he realized he had been wrong about Jolie Siscylla. She wasn't a serene, silent ghost who floated from place to place aimlessly. She was a real girl with dreams as wide and as crazy as a prairie thunderstorm, a girl who desperately wanted to see the world that she'd only ever heard about.

That, he could understand.