A muted sound filtered from the entrance room, and Silviana sat up straighter before reminding herself not to appear too eager and settled back into a crosslegged slouch before her cards.

  Genivia swept into the room with no sign of the Lady Marjeta at her side.

  Silviana frowned. Perhaps something terrible had happened? She reached for her own fan and took a moment to flutter the hot air.

  "And what delays our Lady?" Lilika asked, as Genivia dropped a hasty curtsy first at Silviana then Lilika, who really didn't deserve such a show, Silviana thought. Lilika was a village woman and Genivia came from a good family in Verrin town.

  "I bring Lady Marjeta's apologies," Genivia said. "It seems the sudden departure of her lady-in-waiting has caused some shock to her frail system. She claims illness." She was wide-eyed, her usually pale cheeks pricked with high colour along the bones.

  "Does she now?" Lilika set aside her wools and spindle and gestured to the empty seat alongside her. "And what is it about our dear Lady's health that leaves you looking so pale? Surely a bout of ill temper is not catching?"

  Genivia glanced about the room. "I confess I saw something most strange," she said, her voice low. "I am not sure quite what it was."

  "The people of Petrell are a strange people." Lilika said. "Their ways are foreign and heathen, it is only to be expected."

  "How are they strange?" Silviana asked before Genivia could begin her tale. "Is it because of their forest gods?" The fan was hardly helping. Silviana dropped it and wished instead she could throw open the windows and let in the outside, the forbidden. "Caneth says they were our gods once too."

  Lilika pulled a sour face. "They were. But the people of Jurie have moved on and left the old barbaric ways to the barbarians. There is no pride in clinging to old powers simply because they are old. The customs around the Three are evil ones. They are soaked in blood and sacrifice."

  "How do you know?"

  Lilika laughed dryly. "My family followed the Three. It is blood and curses and revenge. The magic they use costs more than you would like to think on, my little one. It is old and cruel."

  Silviana thought of her dream where Lilika's bloodless, decapitated head had spoken, over and over again. "Forgive me," it had whispered in its dry, winter voice, like the sound of bare branches against glass. "Forgive me, forgive me." Silviana hunched her shoulders as though to protect her belly against the sharp beaks of crows.

  "The Three are nature forces," Lilika continued. "Bears who take the form of women, or women who take the form of bears. They are old forest creatures, and they understand only old forest languages — kill, mate, hunt and die."

  "And Furis?" Silviana argued, her arms wrapped over her stomach. She hurt inside and had no idea why. "Isn't he just an animal spirit too? He is half a bull, after all." She surprised herself at her own audacity. It was not like Silviana to so openly say anything against Furis. Mostly, she accepted him as merely another aspect of her world over which she had no control. But other people in the palace followed different gods, and no storm struck them and turned them to living pyres the way Brother Furis said it would.

  "It's not the same at all. Furis is a man who became a god," snapped Lilika, "not an animal spirit."

  The avenue of conversation closed, and Genivia glanced sidelong at Lilika as though waiting for permission to begin her tale. At a nod, she smiled tightly. "I went to go fetch the Lady Marjeta from her chambers and to give her the news of Lady Areya's departure as you asked," she said to Lilika, "but when I approached the rooms I heard talking, which I thought strange as Areya had long since left."

  "Perhaps she was talking to a servant. Or perhaps she was praying," Silviana said. "Lilika told me she attends the chapel services."

  "Only because she must," Lilika said. "She keeps a house altar in her rooms. Brought her idols with her from Petrell. Go on."

  "There were no servants." Genivia shot Silviana an exasperated glance. "But nor was she praying to her little manikins." She took a deep breath and lowered her voice further, dipping her head closer to Lilika's so that Silviana had to lean forward likewise to hear better. "She spoke a chant, some ritual chant, and, in her hand, she held a small mirror — one that I had never seen before."

  Lilika's usually pretty face was marred by a deep ridge of lines across her forehead. "A curse? And a mirror? I have heard of mirror spells; relics of the Petrell witches and fiercely guarded. They can cause great harm if ill-used. What was the curse you heard?"

  Genivia shook her head so that her gleaming curls flowed and bounced about her shoulders. "I confess I could not hear it all, but I did hear the word soul, so perhaps it was an exchange spell of some sort?"

  "An exchange spell?" Silviana knee-walked closer to the women, eager to hear more, and settled herself on a low cushioned seat.

  "Evil stuff," Lilika said. "To offer one's soul to a malevolent force in a witch's bargain."

  "Why would anyone do that?"

  Lilika smiled grimly. "They are usual in love spells, and to bring back the dead."

  "Could she do that?" Silviana's heart raced. She thought of the bright woman in the portraits in her rooms, the woman in yellow who shone like the sun. By now she would be rags and bones and withered leather. All the light would be gone from her. Even if a spell could bring her back, Silviana doubted she would want her dead mother traipsing about the palace with her skin hanging in tatters from her yellowed skeleton.

  "Who knows?" Lilika said. "It is enough that she is trying to cast spells of such wickedness in our very home." She shivered. "Was there anything else?"

  "No." Genivia shook her head, then faltered. "Well, it is a bold lie that she is unwell, and she was dressed most oddly, in her eastern manner, and truth be told, I have heard from servants that she spends too much time primping and preening. She feeds her idols with oil and bread and talks to the fireplace as though it were a living thing that could answer her." Genivia sat back. "As you know, I do not care for idle gossip, but we must be careful around her and any influence she might have on our Lady Silviana."

  "Some of the remote eastern people still worship nature spirits," Lilika mused. "It could be she is the same, uncultured as she is. Or perhaps she has called up a fire demon and commands it to her bidding."

  "Or perhaps she means to trap someone's heart," Genivia said.

  "Whose?"

  Genivia shifted in her seat. "Well, if she were to have the duke's love as well as his marriage vow..." she began.

  "Hush now." Lilika smiled widely. "Come, we must not speak such nonsense." The look she gave Genivia was one that spoke volumes. They would discuss it further, Silviana knew, but not where she could hear.

  "So, she's not coming, even though she said she would," Silviana said. "And she's probably a witch anyway, so it hardly matters." She paused. "Why is it so wrong for her to want my father to love her?"

  The two older women looked at each other, and even the crones coughed and muttered. Finally, Lilika leaned toward Silviana and clasped her hands. "Love must grow naturally like a seed from the ground. To force it with curses will grow only ill things. In truth," she sighed and let Silviana's hands go. "I do not believe it is your father she wishes to ensnare."

  The old women muttered louder, eyes feverish with gossip.

  "She's young still, and her head is filled with air. She wants the men of the castle to look at her and delight."

  "Like they did my mother," Silviana said.

  "Like your mother." Lilika nodded. "But your mother was beautiful and generous and kind. Your father loved her as the moon loves the sun, and all those who saw her fell likewise in love. There was no magic to it. I think our little future duchess believes she can fill your mother's dancing shoes, her gowns and crowns." Lilika laughed once, harshly. "It is like a stork thinking it can be a swan. She will drown if she's not careful."

  Troubled, Silviana touched the witchstone at her chest. Lilika had told her it would protect her from curses and the evil eyes of those who would do her harm. Despite her warm feelings for Marjeta, she could never trust her. Silviana wore the stone always, worried that the spells her future stepmother spun were getting to her despite its protection. She was a subtle witch, making Silviana like her with games and careless truth.

  But here was the truth. Marjeta's visits to Silviana were merely a chore, part of her act as she readied herself to take Silviana's mother's place. She would throw them off without a thought if it suited her. She wanted everyone to love her as they had the Duchess Belind, and she cast evil spells, called up fire demons, and read from unholy books so that she could steal all that love. "I must be careful," Silviana said.

  "What's that, my love?"

  "We must watch her," Silviana said. "I confess a fondness," she said, "but now I do not know if that is part of her spells."

  The women all turned their heads like snakes, to stare at each other. "Indeed," Lilika said. "It can be hard to tell. The only way to make sure is to follow the way that Furis leads you. He can see even into the hearts of witches, and if you trust him, he will guide you safely."

  "Does he guide you?"

  Lilika paused, then nodded slowly. "I believe he does. And I believe if you pray to him now and ask for his help that he will protect you from the witchwork that the Lady Marjeta has cast." She knelt down by the low chair and put one hand over Silviana's hand. "And if there is no spell, it can still do no harm," she said. "We would be safe, rather than sorry."

  The tall clock in its shroud of wooden leaves and vines clicked out the silence, until Silviana sighed. She thought of Marjeta, who laughed without thinking and smelled like herbs and fur hoods, who played cards and board games and didn't seem to resent it, who ran through the rooms and hallways and made the old women frown. And she thought of her dream where Lilika was hidden in pieces throughout her rooms like a broken doll, and how happy the dream had made her. Perhaps it wasn't Marjeta she should beg protection from. There were things in her own head as dark and wild as the stories Genivia and Lilika shared. Were they there because of Marjeta, or had they always been there and Marjeta had only woken them?

  Both options were troubling. "Yes," she said. "I suppose we should pray."

  The Wild Boys

  Though no magic wrapped Marjeta and her companion's footfalls in silence or turned their shadows to cloaks, no one paid her or Devan the slightest attention. Marjeta wasn't a precious daughter here, or beautiful enough to attract attention. With her plain looks and plainer gowns, she was simply some chit following a boy through the castle passages.

  The moment Marjeta stepped outside the door of the crown court, the smells of the palace citadel enveloped her close as a swaddling blanket. A hunched feeling lifted that Marjeta had not even realised she'd been carrying it across her shoulders. She straightened, breathed in deep. It had been too long. A warm drizzle fell, starring the workers, silvering Marjeta's shoulders. "The stables?"

  "This way." Devan beckoned her on and they crossed a wide cobbled yard, the stones slick with mud. The stables were whitewashed, straw roofed, the ground marked here and there with fresh horse dung. Marjeta could smell the familiar rich and earthy scents of the stable yard, could hear mice rustling in the weeds and the stones of the walls. She breathed in lungfuls of muggy air, tasting the world.

  Curious horses peered over half doors, and there — at the far end, a familiar broad face, shaggy still with the last of her spring coat. The pony tossed her head and whickered in recognition. Poor Dust, waiting for her, sad-eyed and abandoned.

  How did I let this happen? Marjeta picked up speed, half running to the end of the lane of waiting horses. If she'd been home, nothing would have stopped her from seeing Dust every day, rubbing her velvet nose, bribing her with purloined leaves and roots from the family kitchens. In just a matter of weeks she'd let herself be spun motionless into place; a fly shrouded in silk. "I'm sorry," she whispered to the pony as she rubbed the velvet soft nose and ears.

  No one stopped Devan from saddling his horse, or Marjeta from doing the same. Grooms touched their forelocks when they saw him, greeted him with quiet cheerfulness and went on about their work. As far as they were concerned, Marjeta was with him, and therefore had full rights. If they recognized her as their duke's future wife, they gave no sign of it.

  Hardly surprising, Marjeta thought as they trotted out past the high stone walls and onto the packed road that led through the open lands to the nearest small farming village. The sun greeted them, boiling away the layers of clouds, and Marjeta's hair dried in frizzy wisps as they left the palace grounds. A chorus of insects and birds made the sunlight hum over the farmer's fields. The day had turned languid, familiar and comforting as a childhood story before bedtime.

  They were still a good thirty miles from the capital city of Verrin, and the village was much like the one that served the castle back at her own home. People worked, some in fields, some in small home gardens. Women turned the front rooms of their houses into small shops, and the familiar sounds of industry followed them as they walked the horses down the main road. The clatter of looms, the thud and smash of churns, the flap of laundry beaten against rocks in the burn.

  It was achingly familiar, even if the voices around her were not ones she knew. She could pretend she was back home. Marjeta closed her eyes, felt faint spatters of rain catch on her eyelashes, run down her neck and cheeks. She could plunge herself into a past summer, imagine that a lean wolfhound paced at her side, that her bow was slung at her back, her quiver at her hip. She blinked and raised one hand to wipe her face. No. That time had passed. Even Dust felt smaller and slower, her gait slightly off. Age was wearing down her joints. Those summers were gone.

  Devan quickly turned them off away from the village high street and down a smaller path. After nearly twenty minutes they had left the bustle of the rain-soaked village behind them and were heading past the high clumps of brambles and bracken, coppiced trees like clenched fists. Long sweeps of green fields fell to either side of the path, and even these were lost as the path grew narrow, edged with long-neglected hedges that grew high enough to bow overhead in places, making tunnels of underwater green light. From the boughs above came the rustling and trilling of sparrows and yellowbills, and bright jacketed magpies would flutter across now and again, bursts of jaunty energy. The air under the boughs was soft with birdsong, warm with the leaf-filtered sun.

  They let their horses amble down the hollowroad, both content in the stillness far from the bustle of castle life, and in Marjeta's case, far from the expectations layered on her, far from Lilika's scowl and Silviana's sickliness, far from the reminder of all she'd had to leave behind her, and far from the parchment must of Brother Milos and his god. "Are you supposed to spend all day learning religious works too?"

  Devan laughed. "I think Uncle gave up on me. He made sure I knew what to do in the rites and rituals and left it at that. I'm more use to him as a hunter. I have sword lessons, I'm drilled in court etiquette enough that I won't embarrass myself or him, but he knows I'm not a knight. I'll fight for him if I need to but give me a good fast mare and a doe to chase, and that's all he needs from me."

  "And you can't captain a ship out in a forest," Marjeta said.

  "Eh, I dare say if we were close to the ocean, he'd have me heading a ship of my own by now," Devan said with a shrug. "Uncle Calvai has his faults, like any man, but he'd rather put talent to use than waste it. It was my father's call to send me here."

  "Why though?" Marjeta clicked her tongue, urging Dust a little faster. The mare picked up speed, shambling along in a halfhearted trot that jolted Marjeta's teeth. "Seems to me that your father gained little by sending you to a place so far from the sea."

  "He had his reasons," Devan said stiffly. "And here I have some opportunities I wouldn't have had back home."

  "Like?"

  "A very good music teacher. I played the violin only passably terribly under my previous tutor. Uncle Calvai has a knack for choosing men and women of talent to adorn his castle. Or Duchess Belind did, once and now — oh, sorry." He cleared his throat. "My uncle keeps very good court musicians, and they've managed to beat some sense of musicality into me."

  The way he said this made Marjeta suspect that Devan was a far better musician than he pretended. Certainly, better than herself. She could barely hum the notes of a hymn in tune. "And what am I then?" she asked, half to herself.

  "I told you," Devan said, "If my uncle sees talent, he won't waste it."

  "Is that so?" Marjeta wondered if there was a way to prove to her future husband that she would be better off riding with the hounds than copying out texts. "The ladies of the castle sometimes ride with the hunts, don't they?"

  "Not on proper hunts," Devan said. "But yes, sometimes." He glanced at her, his hair curling over hazel eyes. "You'd want to join? I don't know if Uncle would risk it."

  "I'm a good rider." And a better shot.

  "Still and all. He's lost one wife, and one in waiting. Don't think he'd care to lose a third. And," he frowned, as though suddenly reminded that this had been a terrible idea, "it's not safe in the woods. The duke has enemies."

  "So why take me riding today?" Marjeta squeezed her heels against Dust, urging her on until the pony broke into a slow canter. Devan was quick to follow; she could hear the thunder of his horse's hooves behind her, catching up.

  "Because," he called, "you looked like a horse kept too long in a stable and gone nasty with it. If I'd not dragged you out the palace for your own good, you would have turned too ill-tempered to be of any use."