The wind kicked up again, Simmaeri giving up on the cause of her hair to draw her hands to her elbows, pinning bell sleeves to keep from flapping too wildly. All the while she pondered Caesar's words, her eyes never leaving him, watching for a telltale quirk of the mouth, a darting of the eyes in the thick of a lie. She found none.

"Peoples here speak of time much," she said, taking care with her words. "Of lost time. Old time. New time. Is this what you speak of now? My old time."