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It was awkward, reading a letter about someone while he was standing right in front of her.

…commend to you one Lousiton Magne, a valet formerly in the service of Marquis Charval, until he passed away last spring. He was referred to me by the widow Charval, who says that he will be attentive to the last button of his gentleman’s wardrobe. He is an odd man, perhaps a little touched, but he’s there to be your valet, not your bannerman. If he doesn’t suit, send him back.

By now, Ophele knew the hand of Duke Ereguil, backward-slanting and brisk. The addendum was written in the elegant script of Duchess Ereguil:

Remin dear, try not to glower at poor Magne too much. There are many kinds of people under the stars and all of them have a purpose. Perhaps, as you do not care for your appearance, the stars are sending Magne to care intensely for you.

Lowering the letter, Ophele examined the twitchy-looking Magne, who was looking everywhere but at her. She felt a little guilty about reading a letter addressed to Remin, but in this case it might be a mercy that Remin wasn’t here. Magne looked like he was two seconds from rabbiting out the front door .

“I’m glad you’ve arrived safely,” she said slowly, wondering what touched meant, exactly. Simple? “You are Lousiton Magne, come to look after His Grace’s wardrobe?”

“Yes, my lady,” said Magne, his watery blue eyes flicking toward her and away. He was older than Adelan, over fifty maybe, a bent little man with wispy gray hair and hunched shoulders. “I like to make things nice. Clothes. And closets. Everything where it should be.”

“I…like that too,” she said, pity mingling with suspicion. Over the last few months, Remin’s paranoia had rubbed off on her, and she couldn’t help wondering if this even was Magne; how difficult would it be for someone to waylay him on the road and then claim his place? But on the other hand, if he was a simple-minded old man, then she must be very gentle. “It will be hard work, with His Grace,” she said, trying to set him at ease. “He likes to lose buttons.”

“I brought buttons,” Magne said instantly, looking directly at her. “Lots of buttons, and thread, silk and cotton, all colors. I can go get it. I’ll go get it, you can see.”

“No, that’s all right, Magne,” Adelan said, sending Ophele a meaningful look. “I’ve put Magne in the cottage between mine and Sir Justenin’s, my lady. He knows where everything is, so he’ll be able to fend for himself well enough, and he knows to come to us if he needs something.”

“Oh, good.” Ophele was trying not to stare. There had been a maid with skewed eyes at Aldeburke, but Lady Hurrell had dismissed her after only a few days, and Ophele had never met anyone with an…infirmity like this. “Magne, would you like to go see His Grace’s things? And then you can go get your thread and buttons, if you want.”

She felt a little foolish, trooping upstairs with Adelan, Magne, Davi, and Sir Leonin behind her. She hadn’t visited Remin’s dressing room since the day they moved in, and it was even more bare than her own; there was nothing in it at all, saving a single oil lamp and a boot rack by the door, with a pair of his big boots lying on the floor beside it.

The sight made her eyes burn. Suddenly, she missed him so much. When she opened the closet door, she could feel his presence in the same way she felt his absence so acutely in bed. If she had been alone, she would have buried her face in one of those shirts that still smelled of him. Blinking hard, she shook herself. She was being silly. He would be home soon .

“These are His Grace’s clothes,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. The shirts, doublets, jerkins, and breeches were jumbled together pell-mell on the racks, with a pile of boots heaped in the back of the closet. “They need a bit of mending—”

“I will fix it.” Magne all but dived through the door. “Let me fix it, it’s not nice, like this. Shirts go with shirts. Leather shouldn’t mix with cloth. Oh, no, doublets can get crushed—”

“Can they? We’ll put them at the end, then.” Ophele moved compulsively after him, feeling the chaos of the closet as an almost physical pain. “Here’s another shirt, we’ll put the breeches down here…”

“Shirts with shirts,” Magne repeated, wagging his head. “This one is torn. And this one, stained, and a button missing, oh dear, dear, dear…”

“Put those in a pile, you can take them home to fix them,” she agreed, catching the many pairs of breeches he was thrusting in her direction. “You said doublets can get crushed? The quilting on this one—”

“Look at this!” Magne’s gasp of horror drowned out Ophele’s questions, and his trembling hands lifted the doublet into the light, gazing upon the ragged stitches on its back as if they were some grotesque medical malpractice. “Oh, no. Oh, no no no. The—the thread, the stitch, look, who would do this, it doesn’t even follow the seam—”

“We can throw that out.” Ophele snatched it away, her ears burning. “What about this one? Could you fix this?”

“Yes. With a very small needle. Like weaving.” Magne clutched the jerkin Ophele had handed him, but his eyes were on the doublet she was trying to hide in a growing pile of similarly mutilated garments. “It was brocade…”

“We’ll get more brocades,” she said, trying to be reassuring. He was in for a lot of heartache if he mourned every casualty of Remin’s wardrobe.

Watching as he rapidly restored order to the rest of the closet, Ophele chewed her lip. He did seem to know his business well, and she thought it would be very difficult to pretend to be…troubled in this way, but his sincerity posed nearly as great a problem as potential deception. She had planned to have a talk with him about the necessity of protecting Remin’s things, but would he even be able to understand it ?

“Magne,” she said, bending to try and catch his eye. “Magne, there is another very important thing you must do. You want to keep His Grace’s things nice, don’t you?”

“Yes, very nice,” he agreed. He was focused intensely on another jerkin, which had a huge blue splotch on the back.

“Magne, there are people that might want to ruin His Grace’s things.” She felt foolish, trying to say it so seriously, especially when the chief hazard to Remin’s clothes was Remin. “They might try to spill things on them, or put nasty things in the pockets, or even stick pins in them. That’s why no one but you, His Grace, and me are allowed in this room. No one else.”

“No one else can come in?” he asked, awed at the unexpected honor.

“That’s right. If you see anyone here, you must tell me right away. Sometimes I will come and check myself,” she added on sudden inspiration, and plunged her hands recklessly into the clothing, wringing startled protests from Adelan and Davi. “Like this. So, if someone did something bad to His Grace’s clothing, I would find it first. And if it hurt me or made me sick, that would be terrible.”

“Terrible,” Magne breathed. There was absolutely nothing in those round blue eyes to rouse suspicion.

But how could she know? How well had Duke Ereguil known the Marquis Charval? Even if Magne was the sweet old man he appeared to be, how hard would it be for someone to deceive him? It seemed to her all too easy for someone to slip a poisoned pin into one of Remin’s shirts, or put some foul powder in a pocket.

“Yes, terrible,” she said, watching him from the corner of her eye as she ran her fingers down the back of a doublet. “I’m the Emperor’s daughter. My blood is sacred. So, if I were to be hurt by something in here, that would be a crime against the stars.”

“The Divinity. I know the Divinity,” Magne agreed, nodding rapidly. “He’s sacred, we have to bow and say be blessed under the stars. My lady is the Divinity’s daughter? Star child?”

“Y-Yes, I am,” she said, very uncomfortable as he promptly prostrated himself face down on the floor. “So—so you must be very careful to protect His Grace’s things. I don’t want him to be hurt, so you never know when I might come and check myself. All right? ”

“Yes. No one else can come in,” Magne said. “Only His Grace, me, and the star lady.”

“Yes. That’s right. Get up, please,” she said, her hands fluttering with distress. She was a bastard, no one should be bowing to her.

“My lady,” Sir Leonin burst out, as if he could no longer contain himself. “I do not believe His Grace would approve…”

“I have charge of this house,” she said stubbornly. And Remin wasn’t here to stop her, anyway. “Please warn the other servants as well, Adelan, and any new ones that arrive. I drink everything His Grace drinks. I eat everything he eats. I touch everything he touches. Sometimes I like to try on his boots.”

“I…will let them know, my lady,” said Adelan, who was clearly having complicated feelings about this.

But Ophele was pleased with the notion. She would keep the keys to Remin’s wardrobe herself and examine every single object Magne put inside it, and she had managed to issue this warning without being at all cruel or threatening to the poor, simple man.

Might there not be other ways to exploit it? The back of her mind chewed thoughtfully on the idea as she went about her other errands, collecting books from Sir Edemir and a basket of cookies from Wen, who she was consulting about preparations for Remin’s birthday. He would be twenty-five in less than a month, despite all the Emperor’s best efforts, and she was planning the celebration with her customary level of careful thought.

She had never given anyone a party before.

And now she had something else she could give him, too. Something real that only she could do, turning the speck of stardust in her shameful blood into a shield. Her father hadn’t thought of that, had he? He had just been trying to insult Remin when he gave her away. But she was still his daughter, a child of the stars, and if anyone hurt her while they were trying to harm Remin, it was a sacrilege that merited death.

Could she tell that to the Emperor, somehow? Lost in these pleasant fantasies, Ophele left Brambles to his own devices as they turned toward the manor. Dear Father, she would write, in the first letter she had ever written to him. I don’t know if you heard, but earlier this year, in Granholme, in the duchy of Firkane, one of your messengers …

No, she couldn’t say that, that was a blatant accusation.

…in Granholme, someone attempted to assassinate my husband, the Duke of Andelin. It was only by luck that I myself was not harmed, and now I am afraid it could happen again, as I am always with His Grace and there is nothing that touches him that does not also touch me…

Oh, that was elegant. Would Sir Justenin send such a letter, if she wrote it? Or Sir Edemir? Maybe she should be more explicit…

“My lady.” Sir Leonin spurred his horse beside her, interrupting this delightful daydream. She had known he was just waiting for the right moment to protest; it had been building all day like a thunderstorm. “I must ask you reconsider what you said earlier. His Grace would never want you to endanger yourself on his behalf.”

“No, I won’t,” she said mulishly. “It’s already true, I do drink everything he drinks and I manage all his things. Now they know I know it, that’s all.”

“Forgive me, but that is not the same as deliberately risking yourself,” he said, enunciating every syllable. “There would be a furor through the Empire if a Daughter of the Stars were harmed. The Emperor would turn the valley upside down.”

“Then he shouldn’t send any assassins,” Ophele retorted.

“That is what we are for, Your Grace,” Sir Leonin replied, with maddening calm. “You are his lady, his duchess, and a princess besides. You cannot be his shield, your sacred blood—”

“Is why he married me,” Ophele said shrilly. She had never defied him before, and her voice was quivering. “Isn’t it? Can’t I do this much? Can’t I at least be an inconvenience?”

That, at least, was enough to end the argument. But it did not feel like a victory. Ophele rode on, feeling the weight of their eyes upon her, and wondering miserably how long it would be before they realized that was all she would ever be.

* * *

The baths of Master Balad were one of Tresingale’s greatest conveniences.

Warm, fragrant, and steaming in the October air, they were filled with the splash and murmur of conversation even at this early hour, with gray light just beginning to outline the peaks of the Berlawes. A luxury, and an equalizer, for the baths were the place where the great and humble alike were stripped bare, proving that even the highest were sometimes in need of a good scrub, and sooner or later everyone slipped on the fifth step by the waterspout.

There was a splash and a burst of laughter, and Justenin smiled to himself, laying his head back on the warm stones. The baths were his preferred indulgence, though that was not the only reason he presented himself to Master Balad every morning and night. After all the years of blood and filth, sometimes he felt he would never really be clean again.

And sometimes, if he arrived early enough, he might look through the shifting silver vapor to the river below, where one of the Benkki Desan women balanced gracefully on the river rocks as she practiced with her staff.

“Juste,” said a voice behind him, and he glanced up as Bram splashed into the water, his skin pimpling with gooseflesh in the cold. “Hoped I’d find you here.”

“Early,” Juste agreed, shifting to make room. Bram was one of the more spectacularly scarred among Remin’s men, his flesh seamed with the ragged patchwork of a middle-aged mercenary, and he grimaced and rotated his shoulder before he settled onto the stone seat.

“Looks like everyone got an early start today,” he observed. “Had a bit of noise at the gate yesterday morning, and then again today at change of watch. Care to guess who it was?”

Juste’s eyes narrowed.

“Your pet scholars,” Bram confirmed, letting his head rest against the ledge. “Not up on the wall, lucky for them, so I told ’em off nice, since I know Rem’s trying to parley with the Tower. But I can’t have them bothering the watch, Juste.”

“Especially when they have already been told not to do so,” Juste agreed, his voice flat with displeasure. “Who was it?”

“The bald one, up by Shepherd’s Gate. Brought breakfast as a bribe,” Bram conceded, raking wet fingers through his dark hair to push it back from his face. “But I don’t want my fellows thinking they’ve got to answer a lot of nosy questions before they can seek their beds. They’ve got enough on their plates as it is.”

“Master Forgess.” Juste’s eyes flicked back to the river. That slim, elegant silhouette was gone. “Interesting. ”

Juste fetched breakfast himself a little while later, as an excuse to see the scholars and lay down the law one more time. It was rare that he found himself so befuddled, but between Master Torigne’s smiling, polite assent and Forgess’s more surly acquiescence, it was hard to tell what their game was, if there was one. All they had to do was act like scholars and read. Why were they digging their heels in?

“I would swear that Master Torigne is goading him,” Juste told Edemir later that day, as the two men worked through Remin’s correspondence in the office. The piles of paper had been accumulating at alarming speed. “I’d just gotten Forgess to agree to look at Her Grace’s maps and tables, and then Torigne shows up fussing about unreliable data and sets him off again. I’d let them weed through all four hundred interviews if I didn’t think it would do more harm than good.”

“And waste as much of our time as theirs,” Edemir agreed. “We don’t have soldiers to spare for hours of interviews, nor secretaries to waste on copying notes.”

“It would be spring before we could hope for replacements from the Tower,” Juste replied grimly, and both men subsided, frowning. A whole winter without hope of receiving more support from the Tower; six months at least before they could begin building a relationship with anyone who might advocate on behalf of House Andelin. At best, they could only hope for more eccentrics like Harduin Cherche, who would only take note of the politics of the Tower if it started sprouting leaves.

Was it intentional sabotage? Some scheme to scuttle any hope of rapprochement with the Tower before it could begin? That seemed vindictive even for Segoile, but Juste could think of no other reason for their behavior outside active malice.

He made sure he was unavailable the next day, just to drive his point home, and confirmed with Bram the following morning that there had been no more hassling the soldiers. So he was surprised and displeased when the scholars appeared in the offices above the storehouse a few hours later, with Forgess at the forefront, brandishing a sheaf of parchment like evidence of a crime.

“Sir Justenin,” he said, his round face red with agitation. “You are a very difficult man to locate. ”

“I am a very busy man,” Justenin agreed softly, setting down the orders he had been reviewing with Edemir, who looked on incredulously. Everyone in Tresingale knew to tread with care around Justenin. “Is there something you need?”

“We want to begin our work,” Master Forgess said hotly. “We have lost more than a week already, time we might have spent directly studying the creatures, making our own observations—”

“Which is not to say that there was no value in the existing…err…study.” Master Torigne was quick to temporize. “We will of course be pleased to confirm any of its findings—”

“You understood the plotting method for the maps?” Juste asked, his brows lifting. He had expected some questions about that, but then, they were scholars, and should be able to grasp such things quickly.

“What method?” Forgess demanded, slapping the sheaf of papers down onto the table as if he thought Juste might have failed to examine them. “Made-up points upon a map? Without rigor, sir knight, the data might say whatever you wish it to say, and would not even be considered if it was not legible. We absolutely cannot base our scholarly work upon this—this— schoolchild’s composition —”

Even as Forgess uttered the fatal words, Master Torigne’s gaze suddenly shifted over Juste’s shoulder toward the office door. Somehow, even before he turned around, Juste knew what he was going to see.

“I beg your pardon,” said Ophele, who was standing behind a furious Davi. Her eyes were very large. “I will come back later, Sir Edemir. Good morning.”

The door shut. Juste turned back to the two scholars.

“That,” he began icily, “was the Duchess of Andelin. The author of this work. A work which half the men in this room read without difficulty. A work that was judged of sufficient quality to guide His Grace’s expedition to the Berlawes, where he is searching for the origin of the devils. That is why he is not here. And you should wonder at the mercy of the stars that he is not, or you would be dangling off the sides of the gatehouse tonight, where you could examine the devils in greater detail than you would enjoy.”

“I don’t see why they shouldn’t.” Edemir was livid. “You are impatient to begin your own observations, are you not? ”

“I will beg Her Grace’s pardon,” Forgess said quickly. It was one thing to mock the penmanship of an unknown Tresingale pseudo-scholar, and something else to personally insult the Duchess of Andelin, Daughter of the Stars. “I was…intemperate. But even so, if we wish to learn the truth of the devils, it must be documented prop—”

“That is correct,” Justenin interrupted. No matter how badly Tresingale needed scholars, he could not overlook this insult. “We do need proper documentation. We only have one copy of Her Grace’s excellent work, which His Grace left behind for your study despite the advantages it might have afforded him on his dangerous journey. Therefore, I will not see you again until you have produced a complete, exact copy. Each.”

“Sir Justenin.” Master Torigne drew himself up, stiff with polite offense. “As Masters representing the Tower of Scholars, we cannot accept such treatment—”

“Unless you think we need more copies than that, Sir Edemir,” Justenin added, glancing at his distinctly unfriendly companion.

“Six, including their journeymen,” Edemir said, after a lengthy pause that made it clear that further protest would only increase the number required.

“And I will leave it to you to determine how you might make a persuasive apology to Her Grace.” Privately, Justenin knew this would be impossible. Her Grace would never believe any apology was sincere. He lifted his head, fixing them with a cold, pale stare. “Persuasive to me.”

“We regret that it has come to this, sir knight,” Master Torigne replied, with an air of apology that did not match the glint in his eyes as he dragged the fuming Forgess out the door.

“Will you go?” Edemir asked in the silence.

“Later,” Juste said, picking up the orders they had been discussing before the scholars interrupted. “She will need a little time.”

Though Ophele was nothing at all like himself, Juste thought he understood her. She would hold herself together and retreat to some quiet place to lick her wounds. His presence would only prolong the bleeding. Later, she would be able to hear his arguments. She was a sensible creature.

He was not angry, himself. Juste rarely felt anything with intensity. But he was…irritated. All this time he had been so careful in instructing her, letting her intelligent, pristinely untutored mind unfold at its own pace. It was challenging, rewarding work, and while he had begun for Remin’s sake, he continued it now because he enjoyed it. It pleased him every time she made some new connection that would never have occurred to him or asked a question that challenged his own preconceptions.

She was a little puzzle box he had been painstakingly opening, and those stupid men might have made it snap shut again.

* * *