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  She must have spoken, or made a sound, because one boy jerked up his head in surprise. He hissed and tugged at another boy’s arm. The other boy laughed. “It’s the new whore. Whatcha want, girl?”

  “Food,” Ilse whispered. “I’m so hungry.”

  “Food, huh. How much?”

  “Look at her. She’s got no coins.”

  “Yeah, but maybe she’s got something else.”

  Ilse watched as the gang spread out in a semicircle. If she could only be sure they would give her a few bites of meat afterward.

  It’s a favor, wench. Say the word.

  A trade.

  Four a night. Six when she learns the trade.

  No. I won’t. Not again.

  She spun around, but the gang was upon her in moments. They dragged her into the nearest alley. She fought back, screaming and kicking and biting. One boy punched her in the face. She tasted blood, choked, and lashed out with another kick. Someone grabbed her ankle. She twisted around. A blow to her throat. A kick to her belly. Her vision went dark.

  “’S the watch. Run!”

  The boys scattered. Ilse rolled onto her knees, her stomach heaving. Through a red haze, she glimpsed several tall figures striding toward her.

  “Damned trash. What have they got?”

  “A girl.”

  “We better take her in. Maybe she’s part of the gang.”

  Ilse staggered to her feet and ran.

  “Stop!” one of the guards called out.

  Ilse dodged around the next corner, into a covered street. A hot pain stabbed at her belly. Her stomach lurched, and she pitched forward onto her hands and knees. Must get away. Must not let them catch me. The boys would beat her. The watch would lock her in prison, send her back to her father. She crawled onward, dimly aware that she had entered a maze of alleys and narrow lanes. The sharp scent of manure filled the air, mixed with the sweeter scent of fresh hay. Somewhere behind the fences, a horse nickered loudly. She came to an open gate and crawled through it into the lane beyond.

  Trees and gardens stretched out before her. Beyond them, she saw tall brick walls, a courtyard with a fountain, and lighted windows. A woman’s husky voice floated from one open window, rising in counterpoint to a man’s deeper laugh. Soft strains of music sounded from another window. A rich family’s house, she thought. Not a place for her.

  She hauled herself upright and stumbled onward. Step. Pause. Press hand over her stomach. Door looming to her right. Another spasm took her. She retched and fell over. Her head thumped against the door. “Please, oh please. Oh please.” She hardly knew what she was begging for. Another chance. A different future. The wisdom to make better choices.

  Her heart tripped and raced forward. The quarter and hour bells rang and rang again, echoing inside her head. Voices of the city, she thought. Melnek had a solemn voice. Practical dutiful Melnek. Tiralien. Fair and bright and deceptive, offering no shelter. Duenne …

  There was a commotion behind her. Loud voices called out. Someone was coming for her. Before they reached her, a latch clicked, and the door swung open. A pair of strong arms caught Ilse before her head hit the stone tiles.

  “I’m sorry I left,” she mumbled, thinking in her confusion Alarik Brandt had found her again. “I’ll do what you want now.”

  She pulled up her skirt and reached for her new partner. Her hands encountered a smooth cheek. She stopped in confusion. A woman?

  The person gently caught her by the wrist. “That’s not necessary. Here, let me bring you inside.”

  It was a woman’s contralto voice. But it was a man who gathered her into his arms—a large man with a broad chest and muscled arms, who smelled of wood smoke and cedarwood and the unmistakable scent of a man’s spending.

  The man did not touch her breasts or mouth. Instead he lifted her gently and stood. His shirt had parted, and her cheek rested against a smooth expanse of warm skin. No hair, not even as much as Volker’s wispy fuzz.

  He carried her down a hallway. Music filtered through the walls. Laughter. Then she heard another man’s voice, deeper and rougher, asking questions. Her rescuer answered softly, something about fetching Hedda. Footsteps came and went. Eventually the man stopped walking and laid her on a soft, yielding mattress. A hand brushed her cheek, wiping away the tears she hadn’t noticed before. From his tone, he was asking her questions, but Ilse couldn’t hear much above the roaring in her ears.

  “Please help me,” she whispered.

  “I will. I promise.”

  Again that voice, balanced between male and female. Ilse tried again to focus on her rescuer’s face. She saw large golden eyes, inches from hers, and an abundance of dark hair. Then her vision blurred, and she slipped into darkness.

  * * *

  HOURS LATER SHE woke to find herself lying beneath thick cotton blankets. Someone had stripped away her bloody clothes, bathed her, dressed her in a clean warm shift, and bound rags between her legs. Her hair had been brushed smooth and lay loose over the pillow. Though her body still ached from scalp to foot, it was a dull faraway ache.

  A figure approached her bed—a stout woman, with skin so black, the lamplight hardly made a difference. The woman bent over Ilse and touched her throat. She looked old, her face creased and scored by wrinkles. Silver glinted in her dark cloud of hair, and her hands smelled of magic. She studied Ilse through slitted eyes.

  “Is she awake?” said another voice, whose fluting tones sounded familiar.

  “Yes, and she’s resisting my spells,” the woman said. “Not good.”

  “Why not, Mistress Hedda? Resisting means she has the strength to live.”

  At this comment the woman laughed softly. “You would argue with Toc himself, my lord, wouldn’t you? Yes, it means she has enough fight to survive.”

  The second person came into the circle of lamplight and stood next to the bed. It was a man, with long dark hair, casually tied back with a ribbon, and skin the color of finely drawn honey. He wore loose clothing, drifting in swathes of jewel-bright colors around his body.

  Ilse opened her mouth; nothing came out except a scratchy whisper.

  “Hush.” Mistress Hedda brushed her fingers over Ilse’s damp forehead. She spoke again, and the green scent intensified, causing the pain to recede.

  “She will live,” she said, as though answering an earlier question. “Despite the ill-usage. Despite losing the child.”

  Child?

  Ilse struggled to sit up. Two pairs of hands caught her and pressed her gently back against the pillows. She caught a whiff of cedarwood before the man withdrew.

  “Now you’ve distressed her. She must not have known.”

  “Impossible not to know, my lord. She was nearly two months gone—”

  “Hush, I said.”

  A long stiff silence followed. Then the woman cleared her throat. “My apologies, my lord. So you wish her healed?”

  “Of course.”

  “A stranger, my lord?”

  The man made an impatient noise. “I found the girl outside my house and brought her inside. You would do the same.”

  Ilse listened as well as she could. She heard doubt in the woman’s voice. The man’s voice, so strange to her ear, was much harder to read. Cool and controlled, with undercurrents she could not identify.

  Mistress Hedda laid her palm against Ilse’s cheek. Ilse leaned against her warm hand and heard the woman’s soft intake of breath. “She’s a trusting girl,” Mistress Hedda said. “Too trusting.”

  “Obviously.” He said it without sarcasm, his tone thoughtful.

  Their conversation dropped into a low murmur. Ilse wished she could hear more, but at her first restless movement, Mistress Hedda broke off and returned to her side. With another spell, she sent Ilse into a deep sleep, a sleep without dreams or whispers that did not break until morning.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SHE WOKE TO bells ringing from a nearby tower. Four peals, late afternoon. Sunlight poured through the windo
ws of the small room where she lay. A cool fresh breeze stirred the room’s silken tapestries; it carried a strong salt tang mixed with earth and changing leaves.

  Her thoughts drifted from one hazy memory to the next. Starvation. Moonlight in the square. The boys’ attack. Running from the watch. The sharp pains in her belly. A strange high voice. An old woman speaking magic words. And then a whispered conversation.

  She lost the child.

  She must not have known.

  How could she not know?

  Suddenly awake, Ilse caught her breath. How could she know?

  She tried to recall her last bleeding. There’d been one shortly after she made her bargain with Alarik Brandt. The men hadn’t cared. Some liked it better. Her skin growing colder, she found she could not remember another since.

  Hot tears spilled over her cheeks. Stupid. Crying for the bastard get of three dozen men. Or was she really crying for herself?

  The bellsong faded away. Gradually other sounds intruded on her notice. Crows chattering outside her window. The rattle of wings as they took flight. Someone in the corridor, humming softly to herself.

  The door opened and a young woman, still humming, backed into the room. Her dark blue gown swirled around her legs as she turned and set a tray on the bedside table. She smiled at Ilse. “I’m glad to find you awake. It’s long past time for a meal.”

  Her face was round and pleasant, her skin dusky brown, and she wore her hair sensibly pulled back into a tight braid. The sight of such friendliness and competence threatened to bring back Ilse’s senseless tears. She swallowed them back. “I’m not hungry.”

  The young woman poured out a cup of tea. “Drink, then. It helps ease the pain.”

  Gently she helped Ilse to sit up, then plumped the pillows and held the cup to Ilse’s lips. Tart and black, laced with willow extract and sweetened with honey.

  “Now to eat.” The young woman fed Ilse steaming mash, flavored with cinnamon and fresh apples. Summer fruits in winter—most likely shipped from southern lands or grown by magic. She had come to a wealthy household, if they did not stint at such luxuries.

  “You’re nothing but bones and twigs,” the young woman observed. “Lord Kosenmark said to feed you well so you don’t starve before the medicine takes hold.”

  “I won’t starve.”

  The young woman flashed a smile. “And Mistress Hedda said you were stubborn. That’s good. That means you’ll get better, faster. My name’s Kathe, by the way. Now to finish off a couple more spoonfuls.”

  Before Ilse knew it, Kathe had fed her the rest of the mash, then coaxed her into drinking another cup of tea. This time, Ilse managed to hold the cup herself.

  “You look better,” Kathe said thoughtfully. “Hot food—lots of it—and sleep. Another visit from Mistress Hedda, and you’ll be dancing.”

  “That,” said another voice, “is not quite what Mistress Hedda said.”

  A tall man dressed in dark blue silks leaned against the door frame. Ilse recognized him at once—it was Lord Kosenmark, the one with the ambiguous voice. “You may go,” he said to Kathe as he came into the room. “Leave the tea, in case she wants more.”

  Kathe curtsied and retreated from the room. Lord Kosenmark fetched a chair and sat next to Ilse’s bed. He was a handsome man with his honey-brown skin and full mobile mouth. When he leaned close and laid a hand against her forehead a whiff of his scent came to her, warm and personal.

  Kosenmark said something under his breath. Warmth flowed outward from his hand, and her tense muscles unlocked. He smoothed a strand of hair from her face—a light, impersonal gesture. “Better?” he asked.

  She nodded. He knew magic. Why then had he called in a healer?

  “You must have some questions.”

  “Too many to ask, my lord.”

  He smiled. “Fair enough. Well, to save you the effort of speaking, I will offer you a handful of answers. You have a place here until your health mends. After that, I can offer you work, if you like. Wages, room, and board. We’ll discuss particulars once you’ve recovered.”

  She tried to detect any hidden demands behind his offer. Though she heard none, but then, she hadn’t with Alarik Brandt. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Kosenmark tilted his head. “I hear so many contradictory things in that cool and proper tone. For one, you do not trust me.”

  Because I trusted too easily before.

  He must have guessed some of what she thought, because he said, “Never mind about it for now. You owe me nothing, child. Not even gratitude. Can you accept that?”

  He expected an answer this time. “Yes, my lord.”

  “But you are still uneasy. Why?”

  “Because you have no reason to help me.”

  He sighed. “Then think of it as charity, if you like. Do you have any more questions?”

  Ilse shook her head.

  “Now that is untrue,” he said. “I see a hundred lurking behind your eyes.”

  “No more than you have questions for me, my lord. And yet you have not asked them.”

  At that, his mouth puckered, and she saw laughter in those golden eyes. “You are observant. And stubborn, as Mistress Hedda observed. Yes, I have questions. I shall not ask them, however, because I doubt you would answer.”

  Laughter with a knife’s edge, she thought. The phrase sounded like a quote, but she couldn’t remember the poem, or even if it came from a poem.

  “If you asked me, I would answer you honestly,” she said.

  He was still studying her with that same expression. “Perhaps you would indeed.”

  * * *

  ILSE SPENT THE first week confined to bed. She slept, waking for visits from Mistress Hedda, who came to renew her spells, or when Kathe fed Ilse the willow syrup and other concoctions Mistress Hedda had prepared. It was a strange house she had come to. Mornings were always quiet. Afternoons brought the muffled sounds of chambermaids at work, but it wasn’t until night that the house woke, with laughter and more voices and music drifting up from the rooms below.

  The second week, Ilse made a slow shuffling circuit of her room. Within a few days, she could walk unaided down the corridor. She spent her mornings sitting on a sunny terrace by the house’s formal gardens, wrapped in blankets. Other houses were just visible above the trees and stone walls—dark red and copper roofs, chimneys, and farther off, a bell tower. Once or twice, she thought of home. Of Klara and her grandmother. She winced away from those memories, as from a still-tender wound. She wanted more time—months and years—before she could think upon them with any clarity.

  As for today, and this strange new house … Well, there, too, she found herself unable to dwell upon anything more than the small surface details. The transparent sunlight of winter. The bittersweet flavor of the tea Kathe brought her. The scent of soap and sweet herbs she smelled on her pillow. Luck had brought her to Lord Kosenmark’s doorstep. His kindness had rescued her from death. What came next, she had no idea. It was enough to sit quietly and let her body mend.

  Kathe sometimes joined Ilse on the terrace, when her duties permitted. Ilse soon learned that Kathe’s mother was Lord Kosenmark’s chief cook and that Kathe was her mother’s assistant. Mother and daughter had worked together for a household in Duenne before coming east to serve Lord Kosenmark, and Kathe told Ilse stories about those years, bright amusing tales that featured some of Veraene’s most famous names. But for all Kathe chattered, she told Ilse nothing about this particular house, or about Lord Kosenmark.

  One morning, at the end of the month, Mistress Hedda announced that Ilse was cured. Or mostly cured. “You are both young and lucky. Mostly lucky.”

  She poured out a thick black concoction and muttered a few words, before handing the mug to Ilse. “Drink all of it.”

  Ilse pinched her nose shut and drank the medicine down. In spite of the strong taste, her stomach settled immediately. A moment later, her skin tingled with warmth. “What is it for?”

  “
Cleansing your blood,” Mistress Hedda said shortly. “If I were one of the old mage-surgeons, I’d tell you that it purges your soul in preparation for magic. Myself, I call it a strengthener. Whatever its name, you will need it for your interview with Lord Kosenmark today.”

  Ilse set the mug down quickly. “Today?”

  “Yes, today. What’s the matter? Does he frighten you?”

  “Yes.” She watched in silence while Mistress Hedda repacked her medicines and closed the box. “Do you trust him?”

  Mistress Hedda pursed her lips. “Mostly. He’s a fair man. Ah, here is Kathe, who will give you a better picture than I can. I must go to my other patients.”

  Kathe had brought Ilse a stack of neatly folded clothes. “We have time enough to make you presentable,” she said, laying out skirts and smocks and stockings. “Luckily, we had plenty in stores.”

  Skirt and smock were made of dark brown cotton, and the smock had a high neckline that reminded Ilse of the uniforms worn by maids in her father’s household. Ilse dressed quickly, wondering if the new clothes meant Lord Kosenmark would hire her. She had not seen him once since that first day.

  You owe me nothing, he had said.

  Or had she misremembered that unsettling conversation?

  Once she was presentable, Kathe led Ilse down the familiar corridor, then through a sunny parlor and into a new wing to a stairwell. Up they went, three flights of stairs, past small windows, through which Ilse glimpsed more formal gardens and the stables beyond. At the top, the stairs opened onto a broad landing with a high narrow window facing north. Opposite the stairs was a massive door with carved lintels and a gleaming brass knocker.

  A liveried boy stood at attention outside. Kathe ignored him and lifted the knocker herself. The knocker was padded and made a hollow thump against the polished wood. A pause followed, then the door swung open.

  Lord Kosenmark stood framed in bright sunlight. “Thank you, Kathe,” he said. “You may go.”

  He motioned for Ilse to come inside. She walked past him slowly, her heart beating too fast for her comfort. Behind her, she heard the door close, but her attention was entirely on this new room.