t my most recent past. Everyt sure if it’s real or not, learned or imagined. And I  insulted. My oat h much.”

    “But you’ll . It  a question.

    “No,” said toucone. “’s all I’m good for.”

    As Sabriel feared, ttle conversation over breakfast. Mogget  off in searcoucone ook it in turns to eat y, toucone ive. Sabriel started asking a lot of questions, but as andard response  remember,” she soon gave up.

    “I don’t suppose you can remember o get  out of tion, after a particularly long stretch of silence.

    Even to  addressing a miscreant twelve-year-old.

    “No, I’m sorry . . .” toucone began automatically, tary spasm of pleasure. “ait! Yes—I do remember! tair, to t remember w is . . .”

    “thern rim,”

    Sabriel mused. “It  be too o find.

    ance?”

    “I’m not sure,” replied toucone, guardedly, boo calm t ting bigger and bigger inside y memory—after all, t o magical incarceration.

    But t   seemed to be an affectation. or playing tler—or rator trying to impersonate a butler as best  w drew me a map,” salking as muco calm ion.

    “But, as ly  Ab two-hundred-year-old memories . . .”

    Sabriel paused, and bit  eful.

    opped speaking, but no reaction s as ill be carved from wood.

    “ I mean is,” Sabriel continued carefully, “it e to Belisaere, and tant landmarks and locations on the way.”

    S t of t in tective oilskin.

    toucone took one end as s, and ones, welescope case.

    “I t racing  from to a po