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“I never put it together,”

Davi marveled when they left the offices sometime later, so transparently pleased that for once Ophele was not embarrassed by the praise.

He did have a very big-brotherly air about him as he looked at her, his chest puffing.

“Listened to you day in and day out and not a clue.

Even if it doesn’t work out, that was smart and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

My lady. Wasn’t it, Leo? ”

“I have asked you not to call me Leo,”

Sir Leonin said with exaggerated patience.

But he did look at Ophele and bow his head.

“It was an excellent idea, Your Grace.

Everyone is very excited about it.”

“Thank you.”

That, however, was embarrassing.

Ophele looked down, pretending to pick her way around the mud puddles.

They were all full of praise for her, in the days that followed.

It was amazing how fast the word spread, not only to the knights and soldiers but even to builders and craftsmen and strangers in the street.

Everyone in Tresingale who had survived the summer with the devils was keenly interested in not having to do so again, and since the actual explanation of how she had found their source was so incredibly boring, rumor credited her instead with everything from unfathomable genius to the mystical visions of Ospret Far-Eyes.

Even Auber’s sisters-in-law caught her outside the bathhouse and offered their compliments, which surprised her so much that Ophele barely managed to stutter out a thank you before she fled.

“People like to boast of their lady,”

Remin consoled her, with such glowing approval in his dark eyes that she found it hard to look him in the face.

“They have good reason to boast of you, little owl.”

Sighing to herself, Ophele leafed through her treatise again, wondering if it would ever be fit for scholars.

Rereading the pages made her wonder if it was as painfully simple and self-evident as she feared, and whether it could ever equal the surprising success of her search for the devils’ origins.

Maybe everyone would be disappointed, by comparison.

Maybe the scholars wouldn’t like it.

She couldn’t bear the thought of embarrassing Remin.

It was his praise that she craved and dreaded most.

She had done something impressive.

Even if nothing came of it, she knew Sir Justenin and Sir Edemir would object if they thought there was a better way, especially when lives were at stake.

And it had been her idea, and she had worked very hard to see it through, and Remin was so very pleased and proud of her, but all she could feel was anxious and afraid and… unworthy.

Ophele didn’t understand herself.

Why did she feel this way? Why did Remin’s praise trouble her more every time he uttered it? He had never been much given to compliments.

Oh, he looked a great deal, and sometimes he called her beautiful in the heat of passion, but she didn’t really believe any of that.

But now he openly praised her, he kissed and caressed her and called her his clever wife and every time he said it, it made her want to run away.

“Edemir’s having his secretaries copy and compile your interviews and maps,”

he told her over supper a few whirlwind days later.

He and his men had been working furiously to provision for their new plans.

“We’re hoping to have another couple hundred interviews before we leave, but so far all of them show the same pattern you found, wife.

Edemir said he has never seen the like.”

Ophele had never learned how to accept a compliment.

Her usual response was to pretend it hadn’t happened.

“Well, you made me think of it,”

she replied, looking down at her plate uncomfortably.

“Do you have to go out again tonight?”

“Yes.

It’ll be another late night, I’m afraid, so just go to bed when you get tired.

But I will be home tomorrow night,”

he said, briefly squeezing her hand.

“It will be our last night in Tresingale, and I want everyone well-rested.

We won’t get a wink once we leave, no one can sleep with the devils howling about.”

“But you have to sleep sometime,”

she protested.

“I can catch a few hours in the saddle during the day,”

he said, reassuring.

“Lancer knows his business.

He’ll warn me if there’s trouble.”

“Would he protect you from devils?”

It was a romantic notion, the faithful beast defending his master.

“Probably.

Warhorses are trained to protect their rider,”

he said, chewing.

“Maybe I should sleep near him, at that.”

“As long as you’re safe.”

The words escaped before she could stop them.

Ophele had an almost superstitious fear of acknowledging her fear, as if some malign influence might hear and manifest it.

“You will be careful?”

“Of course.

I have a powerful reason to want to come home.”

His hand covered hers, big and warm and so very strong.

“I think we need a holiday, little owl.

Tomorrow afternoon.

Would you like that?”

“Yes. Please,”

she said, surprised and grateful.

Even with a few days’ reprieve, it was all happening so fast, and it wasn’t enough, they hadn’t had enough time together.

She had only just found the courage to hold onto him.

How could she bear to let him go ?

She saw him off at the front door in the soft light of evening, silently offering a prayer to the early glitters of the stars that he and Lancer would come home safe.

At the bend of the road, man and horse turned in their usual farewell, and Remin’s black eyes sought hers across the distance, wordless and eloquent.

Her throat tightened.

There were so many ways he showed his love, and yet she had to shove down a surge of panic that had no place, no cause, no cure.

She had helped him.

She had done something real.

It was the thing she had been trying to do all these months, and only the most paltry beginning to offsetting the crimes of her parents, but she had done it all the same.

So why were her eyes filled with tears?

* * *

There were many things Ophele had not understood, when she was young.

Aldeburke was one of them.

It was her exile and her prison, but there had never been a prison with fewer guards, or a prisoner so disregarded by her caretakers.

The order of banishment restricted House Hurrell to the estate, and barred contact with all but the furthest fringe of society, so far fallen that they were willing to risk the Emperor’s wrath to associate with Lady Bette Hurrell.

She had been a lady of some substance before the events of the Conspiracy and cultivated a wide correspondence even afterward: disgraced nobles, poor nobles, people who were barely nobles at all.

People of ambition.

They did not come to visit, in the beginning.

For the first few years, Aldeburke was cut off entirely from the rest of the world, with the Emperor’s guards monitoring all deliveries and turning everyone else away at the gates.

But those restrictions largely vanished upon the death of Lady Pavot, and by the time Ophele was nine, the first strangers had begun to come calling.

“A fosterling,”

Lady Hurrell always told them, when she introduced Ophele to her company.

“One of my mother’s friends left her to us, poor lamb…”

In the wake of the Imperial Army’s destruction of the east, this was completely plausible.

There were many such orphans after the Conspiracy, and just as many fallen families, and so no one ever connected Lady Hurrell to Lady Pavot, and thus Ophele to the Emperor.

Though Ophele had inherited her mother’s delicate features and her divine father’s rich brown hair, she had always been very small for her age, and so painfully shy that no one ever saw the stars shining in her tawny hazel eyes.

The fact that Lady Hurrell insisted on presenting her at these gatherings was another thing she didn’t understand, and one of the great trials of her young life.

“Now say hello to everyone, darling,”

Lady Hurrell prodded, turning Ophele in her arms so everyone could see her small face.

“You must practice your manners.”

“Hello,”

Ophele whispered obediently, and hid as soon as she could.

A child did not question why Lady Hurrell was so indulgent before them, cuddling and crooning over Ophele as if she were Lady Hurrell’s own child.

Nor did Ophele understand why the lady always summoned Julot to escort her away, his hand tugging impatiently as all the ladies watched and cooed.

But she did understand that there were cookies.

The year she was nine, Ophele managed to slip away from both Julot and her maids, finding her way to the east parlor, where many tables were spread with sumptuous variety.

And there, she hesitated, for the room was overflowing with strangers, and all the other little girls were gravely taking their turns at playing the lute, the harp, and the clavichord.

“Oh, would you like something to eat, sweetheart?”

asked a matronly lady, spying her hiding behind a potted palm.

She beckoned Ophele closer.

“Poor little dear.

It’s a lot of strangers, isn’t it?”

Ophele nodded timidly, eying the raspberry cookies.

“I am Lady Ster Romil,”

the lady said.

“Lady Hurrell said you were going for your nap, and I bet you’re hungry now, aren’t you? Come, sit with me and we’ll have a nice snack…”

A few minutes later, Ophele was hidden comfortably in a corner, munching on cookies and sipping a cup of apple cider, delighted by these forbidden treats.

“Thank you,”

she said, remembering her manners.

“F-for the food.”

“You are very welcome.”

The lady patted her head.

“Have all the cookies you like.

Have you met my daughter, Melia? I think she’s about your age. ”

Ophele shook her head rather than answering, but this time it was because her mouth was full.

“I shall have to introduce you…”

The lady sent a sharp look over her shoulder at someone in the crowd, and then returned her gaze to Ophele, smiling benevolently.

“That’s your sister Lisabe at the clavichord, isn’t it?”

Lisabe wasn’t her sister, but Ophele wasn’t sure whether it might be rude to say this, so she just nodded.

Dressed in a lovely pale purple gown bristling with lace and ruffles, Lisabe took her seat at the small clavichord, which was not too large for her to reach the foot pedals.

“It is a sweet song,”

the lady said as Lisabe began to play, with some accomplishment.

Fans waved briskly among the crowd.

For the recently elevated nobility, and the rich but ambitious merchants who aspired to that class, mere exposure to a lady of Lady Hurrell’s refinement was a priceless opportunity.

Lady Hurrell wore the manners of the aristocracy like a second skin, and Lisabe was similarly a model for the little girls, who would be expected to marry for the blood or gold their families currently lacked.

Lady Romil was very nice.

Ophele didn’t understand much of what she said, but her voice was kind when she said it, and she plied Ophele with more cookies and juice and gentle caresses, which at first made Ophele flinch until she realized they didn’t hurt.

And Melia was nice, too, when she appeared, a gregarious little girl with strawberry blonde curls and a very pretty jade-green gown.

“Can we go play in the garden?”

Melia asked, taking Ophele’s hand as if they had instantly become friends.

“After you have taken your turn,”

Lady Romil replied.

“Why don’t you slip in after Lisabe? Then you and Ophele can go play.”

“I don’t know…”

Ophele said, troubled, but the lady looked down at her with that same kindly smile stretching her mouth.

“It’s too lovely a day to keep children penned up inside,”

she said, with an air of friendly conspiracy.

“There, now, see? Melia shall play now, and then you’ll be on your way.

Do you play the lute, my dear?”

“I don’t know how,”

Ophele admitted, watching enviously as Melia took her place and plucked a simple but cheerful song.

Rosalie Blue and the Magic Lute was one of her favorite songs, and Ophele had often wished she could run away to the forest and play a magic lute so the animals would be her friends.

“The flute, then? Or the harp?”

“No.

I don’t know how to play anything.”

“You can’t play any instrument, child?”

Lady Romil asked, and Ophele did not hear the change in her voice.

“No,”

she said, confused.

“I don’t have any teachers…”

She did not know that this was unusual.

Nor did she understand why Lady Romil suddenly sounded so eager as she asked about her nonexistent lessons, friends, nurse, and tutors, but the barrage of questions was sufficient to make her retreat, mute and bewildered.

“It’s all right, child, you can tell me the truth,”

Lady Romil said reassuringly.

The words sent a spasm of terror through the little girl.

Ophele didn’t know what that was.

Shaking her head, she tried to slide out of her chair, her eyes searching fearfully for Lady Hurrell.

“No, no, my dear, don’t worry.

Would you like more coo—”

But that friendly hand suddenly seemed grasping, and Ophele darted away, searching frantically through the crowd of strangers.

People had tried to talk to her before.

More than once, visitors to Aldeburke had taken her aside, asking questions she didn’t understand with big, ingratiating smiles on their faces.

Lady Hurrell was the only one that ever came looking for her.

Lady Hurrell was the only one that protected her. Lady Hurrell was the only person willing to hug her, even though Ophele was a bastard.

Spying the lady by the tea table, Ophele flung herself into her skirts.

“Ophele!”

Lady Hurrell exclaimed in surprise.

“There you are, I’ve been searching everywhere! Whatever is the matter?”

“Perhaps she thinks she is being punished,”

came Lady Romil’s voice, a good deal sharper than it had been before.

“Since she has not had a chance to play, like the other girls.

Surely you would not neglect your fosterling in favor of your own child?”

The hands holding Ophele went rigid, and she clung tighter, hiding her face.

“Ophele.”

Lady Hurrell’s hand gripped her shoulder to push her away toward the crowd, outwardly gentle but rigid as iron.

Her red lips curved in a soft smile.

“Is that why you’re upset? Would you like to play for these nice ladies? ”

The room was silent.

There were dozens of ladies watching, as well as children and servants, a weight of staring eyes so crushing that Ophele’s throat closed.

She didn’t know how.

She knew she didn’t know how.

Should she not have said that? What did Lady Hurrell want her to say? She had messed up, she shouldn’t have said anything to Lady Romil, it was so much better never to speak at all.

Slowly, her head began to shake from side to side, not in answer but mute, fearful denial.

“Are you sure? You love to play.”

Lady Hurrell’s voice was soft and understanding and disappointed.

“She said she doesn’t know how.”

Lady Romil was not going to be beaten so easily.

“Could that be true, Lady Hurrell? You have spoken so often of your great expectations for her.”

“Oh, dear, dear.”

Lady Hurrell crouched down to Ophele’s level.

“I have told you and told you that fibs aren’t nice.

Apologize to the lady.

Go on, now.”

Ophele’s face blazed scarlet, a hot, prickling blush that made perspiration bead on her forehead, but she knew better than to protest.

The truth was whatever Lady Hurrell said it was.

Her heart was jerking in her chest as the lady pushed her forward to stand before all those terrible eyes.

“I-I lied,”

she said.

“I’m sorry…”

The silence was so deep, the words sounded as if they were falling into a pit.

Ordinarily Lady Hurrell would have made her repeat herself until the apology came out loud and clear, but not before these witnesses.

She was already swooping down as Ophele began to tremble all over.

“She is a sensitive child,”

Lady Hurrell apologized, bending to pick Ophele up.

“There, there, Ophele.

You did just as you ought.

There, there…”

This was all that Ophele wanted.

The fear and humiliation were almost worth it, if someone would only be kind to her.

Burying her face in the lady’s shoulder, she submitted to being embraced and consoled, listening to the rise and fall of Lady Hurrell’s voice as she moved slowly through the crowd, one hand rubbing Ophele’s back.

The lady hardly ever held her for this long.

Ophele cuddled against her, breathing the familiar scent of rose sachet, and closed her eyes, wishing she could stay just like this forever .

“Here,”

Lady Hurrell said in quite a different tone at the parlor doors, and hands gripped Ophele’s arms, prying them loose from the lady’s neck.

“Sorry, my lady,”

said Leise.

“We were looking for her, I swear we looked everywhere.”

“Never mind.

Ophele, let go.”

Disentangling herself, Lady Hurrell pushed the child toward the maids, wrenching her arms painfully as they lowered her to the floor.

When frightened badly enough, Ophele had taken to hiding in unlikely places around the house, and Leise and Nenot did not appreciate being made to search.

“I’m sorry,”

Ophele whispered, pleading.

“I didn’t know—”

“Then you should have held your tongue,”

Lady Hurrell replied.

“We will speak of it later.

Take her to her room.”

Her cold glance promised that the conversation would not be pleasant.