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She pauses slightly when she sees me, then Lemi, but then continues setting the places around the table. “I was told we had a guest tonight but I wasn’t expecting a hound, too.”

“I hope that’s not a bother,” I say to the woman.

She glances up at me in surprise as she finishes putting down the plates. “No bother to me, but even if it were, I’m only the help.” She exchanges a quizzical look with Solla, as if to wonder what corner of the world I’ve been dragged out of. I suppose I should get used to that look.

Once the woman has put down cloth napkins and silverware, she leaves the room and Solla pulls out a chair for me near the end of the table. “Here, you can sit across from me and next to Andor. Also farthest from my father and uncle, which you’ll soon appreciate.”

I sit down on the tall wood chair, taking in the ornate carvings of dragon tails wrapped around cedar trunks. Even though Norlanders don’t worship dragons, their images are throughout the house.

Lemi comes beside me, his head on the table, until I tell him to go sit by the fire, which he does reluctantly, never taking his eyes off me.

Solla takes the seat across from me while the woman comes out again, this time bringing along an older balding gentleman with graying blue hair at the temples.

They bring out glass jugs, gold carafes, and various crystalware and place them on the table along with a giant bowl of fresh-baked bread in the middle of the spread with a platter of melting butter.

At first I think the butter has gone bad because of the dark flecks in it, but then the woman notices the expression on my face and tells me it’s herbed butter.

Not only do I feel stupid, but I also feel ridiculous being served by these people. The fact that I’m technically a prisoner and yet they’re the ones bringing me food doesn’t feel right.

“What are your names?” I suddenly blurt out as the man places a goblet in front of me. “If you don’t mind sharing.” Both the man and the woman pause and look at each other. “I’m Brynla,” I say quickly. “That’s my dog, Lemi.”

The man clears his throat. “I’m Belon,” he says in a voice, his accent unplaceable.

“You can call me Margarelle,” the woman says with a quick smile. “I hope your stay here will be a comfortable one, for however long it may be.”

“Hopefully not too long,” I blurt out before I realize what I’ve said.

Belon snorts lightly in amusement just as Andor appears in the doorway.

I have to admit, the sight of him doesn’t annoy me for once. Not that I mind Solla’s company, but in a strange way I feel I can be more myself in front of Andor than I can be with his sister. That is, until I remember that he’s the one who’s blackmailing me.

Andor stands there staring at me in disbelief, as if he doesn’t recognize me. I suppose the color pink makes me look like someone else.

Then he gives me a flash of a smile, a dimple appearing in his stubble, and walks on over, pulling out the chair.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he says, sitting down. “I didn’t recognize you with a proper dress on.”

“Yes, it’s almost as if I were a lady or something,” I say.

“Almost had me fooled,” he says, reaching for a goblet made of onyx.

“Let’s see if I can fool the rest of your family,” I mutter under my breath.

“Oh, please don’t,” Andor says, giving me another playful smile. “It’s the real you that’s valuable to House Kolbeck.”

If they find any value in me at all , I think. Judging by his uncle’s reaction, I should prepare for the worst.

And with that thought, I feel my palms grow clammy. I shouldn’t want to impress these people and yet somehow I do.

“Here,” he says, snapping his fingers at Belon, who hurries over with a cask of wine.

“Have some wine. We have our own winery on the slopes at the back of the keep. We get our reds imported from Vesland but our white grapes have done all right, thanks to Steiner’s tinkering. He’s got an evergreen thumb.”

Belon pours some white wine into my goblet just as another man appears in the archway.

He pauses briefly to look at me, a dark, arched brow raised in such a way that I know without a doubt he’s Andor’s older brother.

They have the same square jaw, the long nose, the deep-set eyes and dark hair, though his hair is cut short and his eyes are green.

He’s as tall as Andor, maybe taller, and though he doesn’t have the same bulk of muscles, he’s still lean and powerful looking.

He walks with controlled, languid grace, like a giant cat that can’t decide if it’s going to flop down and take a nap or pounce on you.

I find myself sucking in my breath, too wary to take a sip of my wine, my eyes never leaving his as he sits beside Solla.

“Who is this?” he asks, his voice even and rich as he looks me over with a measured gaze.

“This is Brynla,” Andor says. “She’s our guest.”

“Prisoner,” Solla speaks up, hiding a small smile behind her glass.

“Prisoner-slash-guest,” Andor clarifies. He gives me a flash of a smile. “Brynla, this is my brother Vidar, otherwise known as the golden boy and heir to the Kolbeck dynasty. I’d tell you he’s not as grumpy as he looks, but that would be a lie.”

I can see that. Vidar seems to have a face carved from stone. Handsome but coldly so, his face dark and impassive. Not a person you’d want on your bad side, that much I can glean.

Vidar doesn’t say anything to Andor; instead he focuses on me. “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be greeting a prisoner, but if you’re staying for dinner, then formalities take precedent. Welcome to Stormglen. I trust your stay here will be…tolerable.”

“Thank you,” I tell him. “I was hoping I would meet your dog.”

There’s a tiny flare of surprise in his eyes. “Feral? He’ll be down once he smells the food being served.”

“I thought he might get along well with Lemi,” I say, gesturing over my shoulder.

Vidar looks around my chair, brows rising once he spots Lemi by the hearth. “I see. The prisoner-guest has a dog.”

“I’m the prisoner, my dog is the guest,” I tell him, allowing myself a sip of wine.

I swear he nearly smiles at that. Must be a trick of the eyes.

“And what do you think of the wine?” Andor asks me, leaning in slightly. I catch a whiff of his scent, like a mixture of warm amber and the umberwoods. I close my eyes for a moment, his smell making my stomach flip. Must be the nerves.

“It’s good,” I manage to say. “Though I don’t have a lot of experience with wine. We don’t normally drink it.” And by that I mean, I think I’ve had it once, stolen from my aunt’s canteen when she wasn’t looking. It tasted like poison.

“What do you normally drink in the Dark City?” he asks.

“Did you just say the Dark City?” Vidar says sharply.

“Yes,” I say, straightening up in my chair and meeting his eye. “That’s where I’ve come from.”

“I don’t think we’ve ever had someone from Esland at Stormglen,” Vidar remarks in a low voice. “I don’t think I’ve even met anyone from Esland.”

“And for good reason,” another voice, louder and sharper still, booms across the room.

The Sjef of House Kolbeck has arrived for dinner.