“How?” he croaked. He had spent his life in other people's shadows, a hunter of coins and heirlooms. He had never been a thief of names.

The air grew colder; the lantern trembled in his hand as if afraid. He thought of his silence on the road, the cold coin in his pocket, the haste with which he'd sold the pin to the fences. He thought of the stories that had kept him fed on lonely nights: legends of tombs and spirit-guardians, warnings never to move the locks of a dead person’s name. He had moved it. He had believed himself clever.

Dusk found him at the rim of the tomb, the returned amulet whole upon his palm. The woman stood where shadow met stone, her linen hair unbraided, her smile tired but satisfied.