Marrowbay was the kind of place that existed in the gap between being found and being discovered.

Not hidden — it was on the coast road, a reasonable stop between two larger towns, with a harbour that handled modest trade and a population that had the self-sufficient quality of communities that had been managing their own affairs for long enough to have developed a settled relationship with the idea that strangers passed through and locals remained. The Thursday market was a real market in the way that markets were real when they existed to serve the people who used them rather than the people who visited: practical, slightly noisy, arranged around function rather than charm.

Grace had dressed accordingly. Not the travelling dress of a lady visiting — something plainer, the kind of thing a woman of the merchant class might wear for a day's shopping, which was a category of clothing she had in her trunk because Mira had packed for every eventuality when they left Velmira House, which was one of the reasons Grace considered Mira genuinely irreplaceable. The effect was not quite convincing at close inspection — her posture was too particular, her attention too controlled — but at market distance it was sufficient to avoid being immediately categorised as someone from a great house, which was what she needed.

Cassian in a plain coat still looked like a man who owned things, but there was little to be done about that. They separated at the market entrance without discussing it, which was the kind of logistical intelligence that had begun to characterise how they worked together: the recognition of the obvious move without the requirement of stating it. Mira went with Grace. Cassian went alone toward the north end of the market, which was where the note had said Thursday, and toward the stalls that would be, at the north end of a coastal market, the dried goods and preserved materials.

Grace went the other way first.

---

She spent twenty minutes working through the south end of the market with the specific attention of someone studying the geography before moving to the relevant location. This was not delay — it was preparation. She wanted to understand the layout before she found the right stall, wanted to know what the exits were and where the market thinned toward the edges, wanted to have a sense of the ambient crowd before she introduced herself to someone whose instinct, after four years in hiding, was almost certainly to run from any unknown face.

She bought dried lavender from a woman near the south entrance, a small pot of honey from a stall near the centre, and a pair of practical leather gloves from a craftsman whose work was too good for this market but who was here anyway, which told her something about Marrowbay's relationship with quality. She noted these purchases as useful cover and moved toward the north end.

The flower stall was where the note had placed it.

Small — smaller than the surrounding stalls, not because it lacked material but because it had been set up to take minimum space, the arrangement of the display functioning as a kind of protective colouring. Not a stall that said *look at me* but one that said *I'm here if you need me.* The flowers were good: dried carefully, arranged with knowledge rather than decoration, the kind of quality that came from understanding what you were working with.

The woman behind the counter had her back half-turned, working on a bundle of dried stems.

Grace saw the hair first: pale gold, cut shorter than it would have been in a portrait, worn without the arrangement of aristocratic styling. Then the angle of the shoulders — not the particular posture of someone who had never needed to think about their posture, but the specific posture of someone who had unlearned it deliberately. And then the woman turned, slightly, to reach for something on the shelf behind her, and Grace saw the profile.

The shape of the nose. The line of the jaw. The specific proportion of feature to feature that she had memorised from a portrait hung behind a dust sheet in a room that had been prepared for a successor.

Elowen Marst, or the woman who had been Elowen Marst, was approximately six feet away and about to turn fully around.

---

Grace approached the stall.

She picked up a small bundle of dried rosemary without looking at the woman, examining the stems with the studied interest of a genuine customer. The woman behind the stall completed her turn, saw a customer, adjusted her expression to the specific neutral welcome of someone who ran a market stall and was neither surprised nor particularly invested in any given arrival.

"Good morning," she said. Her voice was lower than the portrait suggested — portraits couldn't capture voices — and had the slightly flattened quality of someone who had been living somewhere different from where they were born long enough to have lost the sharpest edges of their original accent.

"Good morning," Grace said. She set down the rosemary. Picked up a bundle of dried winter herbs instead, turned it over, examined the ends of the stems.

The woman waited.

Grace kept her eyes on the herbs and said, quietly enough not to carry past the two of them: *"Don't fear the man they call a monster. Fear the one who calls you Grace."*

The woman's hands stilled.

It was a small stillness — the hands had been moving, wrapping something in paper with the automatic efficiency of someone who had done this task a thousand times, and then they stopped. Not dropped, not startled. Simply stopped, with the specific quality of a body receiving information that required all available processing capacity and temporarily redirected resources from the hands.

Grace set the herbs down. She looked up.

The woman was looking at her. The pale gold hair, the grey-blue eyes, the face that was both exactly the portrait and entirely different from it — what was different was what four years outside the portrait had done. The portrait had shown a young woman in the preserved calm of a formal sitting. This face had been used for four years of a life that required sustained vigilance, and the vigilance had written itself into it in lines that were not yet deep but were definitely there.

And the expression: the specific face of someone who had been waiting for a particular thing to happen and had spent enough time waiting that when it happened, the first response was not relief but a kind of exhausted recognition.

"Come around," the woman said. Very quietly. "There's a room at the back."

---

She sent Mira to find Cassian while Grace went around the side of the stall.

The room at the back was small and lit by a single window that looked at a stone wall. A table, two chairs, a shelf of supplies. The woman who had been Elowen Marst closed the door behind them and stood near it for a moment — not blocking it, just maintaining access to it, the habit of a person who had spent four years ensuring they always knew where the exits were.

She looked at Grace with the expression of someone making an assessment.

"You're the next one," she said.

"Yes."

"How long have you been at Ravencroft?"

"Three weeks."

The woman absorbed this. "And you found the note in the wall."

"And the diary. And the music box." Grace paused. "And the Lower Glasshouse. And a file that contained my mother's name."

Something moved through the woman's expression — not surprise exactly, more the specific response of someone learning that a situation had developed further than their last information.

"Who told you about your mother?"

"Cassian Ravencroft's archive. He's outside — he came with me. He knows you're alive. He's known since he helped you leave."

The woman's jaw tightened. A controlled response — the specific jaw adjustment of someone suppressing a larger reaction. "He knows I'm here?"

"He knew you might be. He didn't come to find you himself. He brought me instead."

A pause. "Brought you."

"He gave me the key to the archive. The note with the Marrowbay reference was in it. He knew I would come when I found it." Grace looked at her steadily. "That is its own conversation, which I haven't finished having with him. But he's outside, and he's waiting, and I'd like to understand what happened to your predecessor before I continue that conversation."

The woman looked at her for a long moment.

Then: "My predecessor."

"The Grace before you. Or whatever you call them." Grace paused. "I've been calling them the Graces, for lack of a better name for the role."

The woman made a sound that was not quite a laugh — too dry for a laugh, too involuntary for a deliberate expression of irony. She moved away from the door and sat in one of the two chairs.

"Sit down," she said. "This will take a while."