This chapter didn't flow as well as I would have liked, hence the delay... Sorry to keep you waiting, and I hope you enjoy the chapter.

CHAPTER TWO – SHARED BLOOD

Jouane set down his tankard firmly, sending vibrations running through the tabletop. 'It seems clear enough to me what happened.'

'We can't make any assumptions until we know more.' Rorik regarded the Breton with a weary gaze. 'Guesswork starts rumours.'

'By the Eight, Rorik, the rumours are flying already. It's a small village, and this is the most interesting thing that's happened here in two decades. People will talk whatever we do.'

'Rumours are going to hurt people.'

'You mean the girls. And they've already been hurt by this, Rorik. There's no use in trying to moonsugar-coat the truth with .'

Sissel swallowed hard and closed her eyes. She'd been inside Rorik's house so many times, since it was where Jouane lived, the place where she went to learn magic from him. But it had always seemed a welcoming place then, a kindly place. A place where she felt at home. Now it was as if there was a rabid wolf in there with them, hiding in a corner. Something everyone was aware of, but afraid to talk about.

She was sitting by the fireplace, her knees drawn up against her chest, watching the flames dance in the grate. Britte sat a little way off,apparently too stunned to think about trying to pick on her sister, but still not putting a finger across the large gap between them. Rorik had heated up some milk and given them each a mug, but Sissel's had served as a distraction for only a few minutes before she'd emptied it. Now she had nothing to focus on but the conversation between the adults, sitting at the table nearby, their voices low but loud enough to be heard.

'The fact is that he was murdered. And someone has to be responsible for it. The killer could be anyone in Rorikstead.'

'Now hold on, Jouane. Let's not go accusing our friends yet. I know Lemkil didn't exactly make himself popular, but I don't think anyone here in Rorikstead would straight-up murder the man. Especially not when it meant orphaning two girls.'

'What's the alternative? A stranger just happened to be passing through the town, ran into Lemkil and decided on the spur of the moment to off him?'

'Well, say Lemkil started a fight – '

'Surely then there'd be other marks. Bruises, cuts... Rorik, he was stabbed in the neck from behind. That's the sign of a murder, you can't deny that.'

Sissel hugged her knees in a little tighter. Did it really matter who had killed her father? He was dead. All that really seemed important was what was going to happen to her and Britte now. Jouane and Rorik weren't discussing that. Maybe they just didn't know.

She knew she didn't.

'Are you accusing anyone in particular, Jouane?'

'Gods, of course not. I think we can rule out young Erik, since half the village heard him yelp with shock when he found the body, and I doubt that could have been faked. Perhaps we could try searching people for a weapon of the kind that might have been used –'

Rorik slammed a hand down on the table. 'Jouane, do you realise what you're doing? You're trying to work out which member of our community is most likely to be a murderer.'

'Of course I do. But it just seems more reasonable to suspect someone from Rorikstead than to suggest that a stranger would do it. Lemkil hadn't been outside the village in years. Why would anyone from outside want to kill him?'

With a heavy sigh, Rorik shook his head. 'I know you're right about that, Jouane. But I can't see anyone from Rorikstead having the skill to kill him like that. No sound that alerted anyone – nothing. That looked like a clean kill.' He gathered up his mead tankard in both hands. 'I don't think he'd have been in pain for long.'

'Small mercy. However he died, he's dead.'

'It makes it easier to think about.' Rorik took a sip of his mead, and replaced the tankard on the table. 'Half the people in this village have never killed anything larger than the pests on their crops. You and I are the only trained fighters, apart from the guards.'

The door to the house thumped open. Sissel turned to see one of the guard standing silhouetted in the doorway, stamping mud and frost from his shoes. 'Rorik, we found something.'

Pushing the door to, he crossed the room to stand beside the table, and held out his hand. Sissel stood up, so as to get a clear look at the object nestled in his palm. It looked like a twig – a thin stick of wood with dark green needles spreading out from it.

'Looks like it comes from a yew tree.' Rorik frowned, passing it over to his companion. 'Jouane?'

'Definitely yew.' Jouane squinted up at the guard. 'Where did you find this?'

'When we moved Lemkil's body, we found it in his hand.'

'You mean he was holding it when he died?'

'No. The killer put it there.' The guard coughed. 'Rorikstead's remote, so I'm not surprised you haven't heard, but it's been spread around among the guards. In the last few years, a fair few bodies have been found with a piece of yew in their hands. It's a calling card. They think it's from the Dark Brotherhood, or at least from one of their members, but… there's no way to be sure.'

'The Dark Brotherhood? Gods have mercy.' Rorik pressed a hand to his forehead. 'That could be the answer, Jouane. If someone from the village contacted that bunch of murderers…'

Jouane's jaw was clenched. 'Somehow, that's worse.'

'One thing's for sure, there are no yew trees in these parts.' The guard shrugged. 'If the Brotherhood have struck here, Jarl Balgruuf should be informed.'

Jouane made a helpless gesture. 'Well, never mind that now. The exact cause and method of Lemkil's death can be worked out later. For now, we've a more pressing concern.'

'The kids. Of course.' The guard turned to face them, tugging off his helmet and tucking it under one arm. 'Their mother's dead, right?'

Sissel nodded, glad that someone was finally paying attention to them. Jouane and Rorik had been very kind, but they'd barely directed a single word in the direction of herself or Britte in the last twenty minutes.

'What becomes of them, then?' Rorik asked. 'Someone's got to look after them.'

Sissel's heart gave a tiny jump. If her father was gone, and she didn't have to work on his farm any more, then maybe she could stay here and live in Rorik and Jouane's house. She could learn about magic whenever she wanted and she'd never have to dig up another patch of weeds again.

'We could do it, couldn't we, Rorik?' Jouane asked, and Sissel's spirits lifted higher. 'The girls could stay with us. I'd be happy to look after them.'

Please say yes, Sissel begged Rorik silently. Everything will be so much better…

But Rorik was shaking his head. 'Jouane, you know we can't. We may be better off than most here in Rorikstead, but… with Lemkil gone, we'll be taking in less money from the tenants, and we wouldn't have enough. You know that. We can't properly provide for two children on top of ourselves.'

'Someone else may take over Lemkil's farm – '

'We're a remote village. It'll be months before someone moves in, and even with the additional coin, we couldn't do it,' Rorik said flatly. 'We can't take them, Jouane.'

'Wouldn't want to stay here anyway.' The sullen mutter was the first thing Britte had said since she'd been told what happened. Sissel suspected that she was just in shock. She knew she was in shock. She hadn't loved her father, neither of them had, but he had always been there. A part of their lives. He'd been cruel to them, but he'd fed them and clothed them. Their existence had been in that farmhouse, the three of them. Now that was over, and everything was going to be different.

As for Britte's declaration, Sissel decided that her twin was jealous. No one, really, was all that fond of Britte – at least, that was what Sissel thought, after watching the people around town. But Jouane liked Sissel, and she knew – probably Britte knew it too – that it was for hersake that he wanted to take care of them.

She realised, suddenly, that she was feeling sorry for Britte. That wasn't something she was used to.

'Actually, unless you're planning to officially adopt them, you wouldn't be able to take them in anyway,' the guard said apologetically, glancing at Jouane. 'Law of the Hold is that orphans with no other family to look after go to the Riften Honourhall.'

Jouane's brow creased. 'The orphanage?'

'That's even worse.' Britte said the words under her breath, but the adults still sent uneasy looks at her, so Sissel guessed they had heard.

The guard folded his arms. 'Do they have any other relatives?'

Jouane shook his head.

'Then they go to the Honourhall. That's the way things are.'

'I don't know.' Rorik clasped his hands together. 'I've heard bad things about that place.'

'It's better now, from what I've heard. There's a new woman in charge who looks after the kids well. She's even spread it around that they're up for adoption, if anyone wants them.' The guard shrugged. 'I think they'll be OK there.'

Sissel was beginning to have that feeling of being invisible she was all too familiar with, the feeling that always came on when adults talked about you without talking to you.

'And how are they going to get there?' Jouane demanded.

'I'll send a message to Whiterun and ask for a carriage. One of the guards can go with them to make sure they're safe on the journey.'

Rorik nodded. 'That seems like the most sensible course of action.'

Jouane pushed back his chair and – finally – turned to face Sissel and Britte. 'Well, I don't like it much, but it seems to be the only thing we can do. Will you go?'

There was a short silence. Sissel looked at Britte. Britte looked at her shoes, and tugged at a splinter of wood sticking out from the floor.

Since Britte didn't seem to be saying anything, Sissel nodded, then, realising Britte wouldn't realise she had agreed, said, 'Yes.'

Britte tugged the splinter out and threw it to one side. 'Whatever you want.'

'Well, that's decided, then.' The guard pulled his helmet back on. 'I'll make the arrangements. They should probably stay in the inn until the carriage gets here. Might take a day or so. And they'll need to be given supplies that'll last them 'til Riften, and to have any possessions they're taking with them packed up.'

Jouane grasped the table to steady himself as he rose to his feet. 'Let's see to that now, then. Come on, girls.'

Britte clambered up and marched towards the door. Sissel waited for Jouane to reach her, then followed at his side. Out on the street, the frost had still not melted, and Jouane pulled his coat tightly around himself. 'Too cold for someone of my age,' he murmured. 'Too cold for someone of your age, too.'

Sissel glanced in the direction of the inn, the place where she'd seen her father lying breathless, lifeless in the ice-coated grass. 'Jouane, what will they do with our father?'

'Bury him, if we can find ground soft enough. Burn him if we can't.' Jouane sighed. 'I'm sorry, Sissel. I know he wasn't the best father, but he was all you and Britte had, and I hate packing you off to some orphanage. Especially in a city like Riften.'

'Is Riften a bad place?'

'Thieves below the surface and corrupt leadership above, from what I've heard. But the orphanage staff will keep you away from all that, I'm sure. If they don't, then send a message to me, and I'll see if I can do. In fact, if it turns out that Rorik and I can look after you, then I might go there and collect you.'

Sissel felt a smile turn the corners of her mouth upwards. She couldn't remember the last time that had happened. 'I'd like that. Thanks, Jouane.'

The Breton let out another long sigh. 'I'm going to miss our magic lessons, Sissel. Keep doing your magic, if they let you at the Honourhall. Wouldn't do for you to get out of practice.'

For the first time, Sissel found herself wishing, really wishing, that her father hadn't been killed. It was taking her away from Jouane and from their lessons and from the one thing she'd really enjoyed and been good at. And then she realised that there must be something wrong. Why was that the only reason she regretted her father's death? Surely she should be sad for other reasons?

'Jouane,' she said quietly.

'Mmm-hmm?'

'I don't miss him.' Sissel swallowed and looked up at him. 'Is that bad?'

'Your father, you mean?'

'Yes. I'm not sad that he died. I'm…' She decided not to say relieved. It just felt wrong to say it. Weren't you supposed to love your parents?

Jouane gave a tiny shake of his head. 'Doesn't surprise me, Sissel. Lemkil never gave you any reason for missing him.'

'But he was my dad, and he's dead.'

'If he wanted you to miss him, he should have acted like your father,' Jouane said sharply. 'Being a parent is about far more than just shared blood. It's about protection, and care, and love. Lemkil never showed you any of those things. There's no reason why he should have anything from you in return, least of all grief.'

Sissel considered this sentence, decided she didn't understand it, and mentally filed it away with the several thousand other comments of adult origin she was determined to make sense of someday. 'I think Britte's upset.'

'More shocked than upset, I think.' Jouane lowered his voice so as to prevent Britte from hearing. 'She'll pull through. Everything's changing for you now, and it's not easy.'

Sissel nodded, and looked at her sister's back, moving in front of her in the direction of their home. Britte's head was bowed, and she was very intently not looking in Sissel's direction. Now that they were alone, each other's only family, something inside Sissel had hoped that her sister might let the undeclared war between them die down a little. Maybe they'd even find some comfort in each other. They were sisters. Now that their father wasn't around to hurt them, maybe they could be friends.

Instead, Britte seemed farther away from her than ever.

Biting her lip, she followed her twin inside the house.

The carriage arrived to take them to Riften in the early morning of the second day after Lemkil's death. One of the town guards – the one who always used that shield with a dent in it – lifted them up onto the carriage, and passed up their bags after them. Neither of them was taking much with them other than the bare essentials: clothes and food. Sissel had a couple of books, given to her by Jouane. She'd never been able to keep them in their house, since the first time Lemkil had found one of them he'd thrown it in the fire. Reading, he'd said, was a waste of time when there was farmwork to be done.

She could read as much as she wanted to now, and no one would want to stop her or be able to stop her.

She cradled her bag close to her chest as the guard climbed up after them – Whiterun Hold law, apparently, was that orphans were escorted, for safety's sake. And Sissel was glad of it, because she had no idea what the world outside Rorikstead was really like, except that it contained dragons, bears, mammoths, giants, and all kinds of other creatures that would probably consider her an appetiser.

'It'll take us about a full day to get to Riften,' the carriage driver reported, as he urged the horse into motion. 'Make yourselves comfortable, and keep an eye out for wolves.'

'Wolves?' Sissel repeated, unable to keep her voice from shaking a little, and the guard chuckled and gave her shoulder a pat.

'Don't you worry. I've got a bow with me.'

So Sissel spread one of her spare shirts over her seat to make it a little more comfortable and pressed herself up against the wall of the carriage, watching as Rorikstead fell behind her and the world she'd never known opened up ahead. She realised, as the village where she'd been born and raised vanished behind the horizon, that she had no idea what to expect. None at all.

The first few minutes of the journey showed her nothing she wasn't familiar with: golden tundra grass, grey boulders, and open, cloud-strewn sky. At one point she thought she saw a vast figure standing in the distance, and leaped to her feet to get a better look, eagerly asking the guard if it was a giant, but Britte snapped at her to shut up, and when Sissel looked again, the figure was gone. As if to make up for the disappointment, the guard pulled a map from his own backpack and spread it across his knees. 'Here. I'll show you our route. We'll be heading along the border with the Reach, down into Falkreath, head through the routes to the south, and enter the Rift just south of Ivarstead. You see?'

Sissel did see, and she smiled as she realised that this meant they'd finally see something other than the open plains of Whiterun. And it wasn't long before the carriage was moving through thick, green forests, the horse's hooves ringing out more quietly on a path coated with pine needles. Sissel had never seen or heard so much life in one place – the chattering of birds, the barks of foxes, the white flares of rabbits' tails. The shadows beneath the trees were thick and dark, and it made her think of the Redguard man she'd seen the night her father had died, of how he'd been able to appear out of the dark and melt back into it. He'd probably like a place like this. She wondered if he'd reached Markarth safely. She hoped he had.

They had a few hours' stopover in Falkreath, so that the guard could buy some food for them in the inn, and the carriage driver could pick the stones out of his horse's hooves, and Sissel and Britte could stretch their legs. It was a quiet place, but that was the only thing that it had in common with Rorikstead. When Sissel thought of the village where she'd been born, she thought of unbroken sunlight, chilled breezes sweeping in from over the tundra, and open horizons. Falkreath was a town of shade, a town where it was hard to see the sun through the pine branches. Looking around, it was easy to imagine that there was nothing in the world but trees, that the evergreens just went on forever. Even the wind here made a different sound. It was different, but it wasn't strange, or wrong, or frightening. It just wasn't home.

Riften would be different again. Sissel sat down on a tree stump and watched the people passing. A woman smiled at her as she passed, and Sissel returned the smile with a kind of breathless awe – not because it was so odd to be smiled at by a stranger, she knew that strangers could be very friendly, but because the woman's skin was a creamy yellowish shade, her eyes slanted, and her ears tapered to points. She'd seen elves from a distance, passing through the village, but never up close like this.

Just another reminder that with her father's death, the world was getting bigger.

The carriage driver called out that it was time to press on, and so the journey continued. Britte fell asleep somewhere around the time that the driver announced that they'd be taking a detour so they could avoid Helgen. 'It's turned into a pit of bandits since the dragon burned it.'

'Couldn't the Jarl send guards to stop them?'

'The bandits? Well, it's not so simple as that. With the war on, and dragons around, it's hard to spare the guards. No one wants to find their settlement short of protections when one of the scaly brutes drops from the sky.'

Sissel thought of the Redguard she'd met, the one with the curved sword and the black jacket-coat-thing. 'I met a man who could kill dragons. He was travelling through Rorikstead.'

'In times like this, people are learning how it's done.' The guard shrugged. 'But not your average citizen.'

That Redguard, Sissel thought, had not been your average citizen.

The path grew higher, and colder. Sissel delved into her bag for her warm woollen sweater. Britte, woken by the cold, stubbornly held out until it started snowing before doing the same. The guard started telling stories of the stupid things his commanders and comrades had done while on duty to take their minds off their numb fingers. Sissel laughed; Britte shrank deeper into her seat, glowering.

The sun was behind the mountains now, so Sissel put her head down on her bag and closed her eyes. With the cold, she'd thought that it would take her hours to sleep. But drinking in a new world must have been more tiring than she'd realised, because she was asleep in minutes.

When she awoke, she found that the landscape had hanged again, the pines and rocks giving way to gentler slopes and thin, almost delicate trees with white bark and golden leaves, as if autumn had come one year and the Rift's forests had decided they liked orange better than green, and never changed their leaves since. Rorikstead had been a place of blue sky and yellow grass, Falkreath one of dark emerald pine needles and brown bark. The Rift was full of shades of amber – not just the leaves, but the grass, the sun, the light on the water. Sissel pulled off her sweater; she was warmer here than she could ever remember being in Rorikstead.

A hawk swept through the sky, and Sissel followed its looping flight with her eyes. 'I like it here,' she remarked.

'I don't,' Britte grunted, but Sissel was fairly certain she did. Britte seemed to have made it a personal rule that she had to disagree with everything Sissel said, and hate everything Sissel liked.

'And there it is.' The guard extended his finger towards the horizon, and the grey smudge that was starting to appear on it. 'Riften.'

Sissel felt oddly disappointed. Yes, her limbs were stiff and she couldn't wait to get off the carriage, but she'd enjoyed the journey. And once they were standing in front of Riften's gates, the interval would be over. They'd be in the new act in their lives that they'd been forced into when Lemkil's murderer had plunged a dagger into his neck. It would start, and Sissel was afraid of it.

So when the carriage finally drew to a halt outside the stables, and a stablehand – a Redguard, Sissel noticed, they seemed to be everywhere suddenly – came to help the driver with the horse, it was with some trepidation that she slung her back over her shoulders and jumped down. She glanced at Britte, and for a second she thought she saw equal fear in her twin's eyes. The Britte looked away, and the moment of connection was gone.

The guard who'd escorted them had a brief conversation with one of the town guards at the gate. This was going to be another thing to get used to: seeing guards with purple sashes, their shields bearing a crossed dagger symbol rather than the familiar horse head.

Their guard beckoned them forward. 'This is where I leave you. One of the Riften guards will take you to the Honourhall.' He bent down and pulled off his helmet to smile at them both. 'Best of luck, kids.'

'Thanks,' Sissel said quietly, and Britte muttered something that might have been an echo.

It was very lonely, watching him head back towards the carriage. Once he was gone, so was their last link with Rorikstead. But the Riften guard shrugged and waved his shield towards the gate. 'Well, let's go,' he said, and so Sissel was heading through the gates of the strange town before she'd had any chance to prepare herself for it.

It hadn't occurred to her until that moment that she'd never been inside a city before. So she wasn't ready for the sheer number of people who thronged the streets, or for how loud the clamour of voices was, or for how tall the walls were, encircling everything in every direction, shutting Riften into its own private world. This place was not like the Rift outside the walls; there was no gentle, sleepy amber light here. Everything was packed with colour and movement, and Sissel swallowed hard, wondering if too much time here would overload her senses.

'This way. And stick close.' The guard set off, barely looking back to see if they were following. 'It'd be easy to get lost in this crowd.'

That, Sissel thought, is true.

She kept one eye trained on the guard as they wove through the streets, not wanting to lose sight of him, but she couldn't stop her gaze from wandering a little, drinking in the sights around her. There was another Bosmer, like the woman she'd seen in Falkreath. That woman selling fish and meat next to the inn – she had to be a Dunmer. And that man – at least, she thought he was a man – behind the jewellery stall could only be an Argonian. She tried not to stare.

'Right. We're here.' The guard signalled for them to stop, and Sissel tore her eyes away from the people surrounding her to examine the building they were now standing in front of. It looked the same as most of the other houses here – short and squat, built from wood, not stone like the houses in Rorikstead. Sissel might not have marked it out as special at all, if it weren't for the metal sign over the door. Honourhall Orphanage.

The guard lifted his hand and gave the door a few hard thumps. There was a short pause; then the door swung open, revealing a young woman, dark-haired, clad in a yellow-brown dress. Her gaze fell first on the guard's helmeted face, then slowly lowered to Sissel and Britte, hovering behind him, and a smile spread across her features.

'Two more for you,' the guard grunted.

'Thank you for bringing them here.' The woman stood back, leaving the doorway open. 'Come on in.'

Relieved at the prospect of being out of the bustle of the city, Sissel obeyed. The moment Britte was across the threshold, the guard wheeled around and marched away into the chaos of the streets, and the dark-haired woman pulled the door shut.

'Well, welcome to the Honourhall. I'm Constance.' The woman bent down so that their heads were on a level. 'And you are?'

'I'm Britte. That's Sissel.'

Sissel dropped her bag onto the floor and pulled it open, hunting through it for the note Jouane had given her. Finding it, she pulled it free and held it out. 'Jouane from our village told us to give you this. He said it would say why we're here.'

Constance took it from her gently and smoothed it out. Sissel noticed Britte giving her a venomous look – clearly, she wasn't happy about the fact that Sissel had been entrusted with it, rather than herself – but Sissel did her best to block her out and focus on Constance. She seemed nice, but Sissel wasn't used to meeting new people. Maybe it was hard to tell what someone was like.

At last, Constance folded up the letter, nodding. 'I'm so sorry about your father.'

'We're not,' Britte said bluntly, and Sissel's eyes widened. Partly because while she agreed, she didn't think she'd ever be able to say it out loud. And partly because, for what might have been the first time in their lives, Britte had referred to the two of them as we.

'I – I see.' The shock on Constance's face quickly melted into sympathy. 'Well, you're in safe hands now. I promise. Come with me, and I'll find you somewhere to sleep, and introduce you to the other children.'

Safe hands, Sissel thought, as she followed. Hands that wouldn't lash out at them in anger. Hands that wouldn't leave bruises on their skin or be held in front of their faces, balled into fists.

She had no idea what lay ahead of her. But it had to be better than what she was leaving behind.

The days began to blend into each other, so that when Sissel looked back on it afterwards, all she could remember of her time in the Honourhall was a blur. She sometimes felt that she should have more to say about it, but really, her time there was defined by what it was not. It was not unhappy, it was not full of fear and cold weather and farm work. It was not home, but it was not dangerous.

Constance was true to her word; they were safe there. The only things Sissel missed about Rorikstead were Jouane and her magic lessons. Riften was warmer. Constance put more effort into caring for them in one day than Lemkil had in ten years. The other children were nice enough, especially Runa, who greeted their arrival with a smile that was too big for her face and a gleeful exclamation of, 'I'm not the only girl anymore!' Britte was still barely speaking to Sissel, preferring to join in with whatever the boys were doing, which was fine by Sissel; it meant she could spend time with a girl of her own age apart from her sister for the first time in her life.

'You're lucky you only came here now,' Runa told her one day, as they watched snow circling down outside the window. 'A year or two ago, Grelod the Kind was in charge here, but then someone killed her, so Constance took over.'

'Someone killed her?'

'Yeah. She wasn't kind at all. She was the meanest person ever.' Runa's voice grew quieter, and she shook her head as if trying to shake bad memories out of it. 'But when Aventus ran away, he said he'd get someone from the Dark Brotherhood to kill her.'

'The Dark Brotherhood?' Sissel repeated. 'In my village, they thought that someone from the Dark Brotherhood killed my father. Who are they?'

'Assassins. If you need someone killed, you can ask them, and they do it for you.' Runa tilted her head slightly. 'Your father beat you up, and Grelod beat us up, and the Dark Brotherhood killed both of them. You kill one person, and you solve so many problems.' She grinned. 'I wonder at the possibilities…'

Sissel laughed with her, but she was only half concentrating on her friend's words. 'Did you see the assassin?'

'No,' Runa said ruefully. 'Grelod was telling us about how we shouldn't ask to be adopted anymore, and then an arrow just came right out of nowhere and hit her in the neck. Bam.' She slammed a fist into her palm. 'And she was dead right away. We never saw the person who killed her. Constance was frightened, but...' She shrugged. 'We were happy.'

'In Rorikstead, the my friend Jouane talked about the Dark Brotherhood like they were evil.'

'Well, they're not,' Runa said forcefully. 'If Aventus hadn't got them to kill Grelod, she'd still be here. Constance really is kind, and she lets us be adopted.'

That was something to consider. Jouane was the cleverest person Sissel knew, but maybe he'd been wrong about the Dark Brotherhood. Runa would probably think so. The idea of Jouane being wrong was so peculiar that she decided to move the conversation away from anything related to it. 'Has anyone here ever been adopted?'

'No. I hope it happens someday, though.'

And Sissel nodded, wondering if it would ever happen. Specifically, to her.

She liked the idea. Constance was wonderful, but she loved everyone. She knew it was selfish, but she wished there were someone who loved her, who treasured her and saw her as special to them. It made her think about the mother she'd never known, the mother who must have been so excited when she learned she was with child, who would have taken proper care of them if she hadn't died.

Maybe then, she'd have loved her father. Maybe then, Britte would be her friend.

That said, as the months went on, she couldn't help but notice a change in Britte. She was still paying almost no attention to Sissel, but she was getting on well with the boys. She'd stopped trying to beat Sissel up – Constance had been so angry and disappointed when she caught Britte doing it that it never happened again. Even someone like Britte couldn't help but love Constance. And, just maybe, when Constance sent her to bed early for it, Britte learned for the first time that it wasn't what was done, that she couldn't get away with it, that the fact that Lemkil had done and not been punished it didn't make it right.

That, though, was the only thing that changed in her life for six months. Until the day her life swung around, hurrying off in a new direction.

It started with a knock on the orphanage door. Sissel was helping Constance lay the table for dinner when the sound of a fist thumping on wood echoed through the room. It was probably a delivery, Sissel told herself, and went on setting out the bowls, only half listening to what Constance said to whoever it was who was standing on the doorstep. 'Welcome to the Honourhall. Do you have supplies for us? No? I – well, I don't suppose you'd be here to adopt?'

'We're looking for a girl named Sissel.'

She didn't recognise the voice, a woman's, but there was no way she could have resisted the urge to drop the bowls onto the table and spin around, not when she heard her own name. So she saw the two visitors came in through the door. The woman, the one who'd spoken, was someone she'd never seen before; a Dunmer, with braids woven into her black hair and streaks of yellow-gold paint across her grey-skinned face. But the man who entered the Honourhall in front of her… him, she knew immediately.

He was wearing the same black thing that was half a jacket and half a coat, with the same dark metal bow and quiver of arrows over his shoulder, and the same curved sword at his waist. His hood was drawn up, but now that she was seeing him in the light, she saw more of the face beneath it. A nose that was hooked near its base, hooked like an eagle's beak.A few pale scar marks across his left cheek, bright lines against the brown skin. And the patterns of his white warpaint; a shape like a triangle with elongated points across his forehead, a stripe across his nose with a line and a row of dots beneath it, and another stripe, a vertical one, stretching across his lower lip and down his chin.

His eyes – the darkest brown she'd ever seen – turned upon her, and a frown furrowed his brow. Sissel glanced at Constance, and took a step towards him.

'Hello, mister.' She swallowed, and, at a loss, thought back to the conversation they'd had before. 'Have you been fighting any more dragons?'

The Dunmer woman let out a low, throaty chuckle. And something stirred at the corner of the Redguard's still face. Just a flicker, the tiniest ripple of muscles. Perhaps, if it had been coaxed a little more, it would have been a smile.

'Sissel?' he said.

'Yes. Um. That's my name.'

He nodded, very slowly, and spoke again, in that low, husky voice. A voice that sounded like a soft wind through the pines in Falkreath, or the crunch of frost underfoot. Any kind of sound that was born from the wilderness.

'I've been looking for you.'

It's so much fun writing descriptions of Skyrim's landscapes. I'm sorry if this chapter was a bit slow, but from here on in, I hope, the pace of the story will pick up...

I can't think of anything more to say, so I'll just sign off with my customary phrase: thanks for reading!