"How did you come to have it?" Wren asks. It comes out blunter than she intends, but Old Maret doesn't seem to mind. She lifts the clay pot from the fire and pours two cups of something that smells of pine resin and warm spice, then sets one in front of Wren with the patience of someone who has waited out harder silences than this. "I was asked to hold it," she says, "by the last person who came through looking for the Ember." A pause. "He didn't come back. The key did." She glances at the cup, then at Wren — the same arithmetic, clearly run many times before. "That was before your grandmother was born, if I'm counting right." The mule shifts. The fire pops. Wren wraps both gauntlets around the cup and does not ask the obvious follow-up, because she is not entirely sure she wants the answer yet. Old Maret's expression doesn't change. "You want the key," she says. "The question is what you're willing to give for it."