Shira walked for the few hours of winter daylight and at evening stopped by an inn. She paid half a silver for a straw pallet in the garret, and she went to the common room for supper.

As Shira stepped through the rough timbers of the low doorframe, five heads turned toward her. Shira sat as close to the fireplace's crackling light and warmth as she could. The mistress of the inn brough Shira a bowl of soup and bustled away again, leaving her to face the strangers.

Four of the other travelers, all middle aged men, cupped their hands around mugs of hot cider. The fifth, a black-haired boy who could not have been older than Shira, was absently stroking the strings of his guitar. Of the travelers, he was the only one who looked at Shira with more than a blank stare. The guitarist had a mischevious grin. Suddenly, he began in a theatrical voice. "They let you out of the convent? Eh, well, you know how it is. I heard…"

"Hush, now," and old, bearded, thick-knuckled man growled at him from over his cider. "Can't you see she came from the School of Mages?" The boy with the guitar broke off. "Look at her clothes, you lout."

The black-haired musician turned away from Shira quickly and began softly strumming his guitar to the fire. His expression as he had turned had been hard to read in the firelight, but it had been somewhere between a scowl and a grimace. Everyone else turned to their cider, and Shira spent the rest of the meal without a word or glance from the others in the common room. As soon as she finished, she went to her garret to try to sleep.

Even though the night was frosty, Shira felt too hot to sleep.

I wonder if I'm sick. well, there's no need to bother anyone now. I'll be fine until morning.

Suddenly Shira felt an insect's crawling She sat up and brushed a hand along her calf. It touched no bug, but the crawling only spread. Shira caught her breath as the tickling, itching, creeping spread down her leg and across her toes. She scratched and rubbed and slapped the rebelling flesh, but the feeling only intensified. In the space of a breath, the feeling spread to the other leg, up her arms, across her shoulders and down her back. In another moment even Shira's scalp burned with the crazy sensation. She grabbed her hair and pulled, but nothing helped.

I must be sick. I should tell the mistress.

Shira stood suddenly and her head swam as if it was about to float off her shoulders. Shira slowly foled her knees and gently sat on her pallet again.

What's happening? If I die... Shira shook her head and the room swayed violently. She reached out an itching hand to steady herself. I should think of something else. Shira felt dizzier and dizzier. She had lost awareness of everything but her skin and the spin of the room. It's right around the time of evening meditation. She lost awareness of everything. Shira was in fluid darkness even before her head hit the straw of the pallet.