Sif went to his bed, never making his presence known. He cuddled with one of the cats, absently stroking its fur.

He knew that the old woman could not have really died; for even Hélna could not resist death. And it had unblocked some part of his memory, allowed him to understand it in a new way:

When his first master had died, and he crawled to her side, wailing, the one who had saved his life then had apologized. He had said that he was sorry he was too late to save her.

These were his two most striking prior brushes with death, and they seemed to confirm the same thing: the dead could not be brought back once they were completely gone. The dying could not save themselves.

He found himself irritated. He had many questions he wanted to ask the old woman now, all far too complex to convey through gesture alone. Even if he could speak to her, she assumed he was Helna, and therefore would already know all the answers.

" Lady Hélna, you're home?" the old woman asked, surprised. She stood at the half open door. " I'll have your dinner brought for you."

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