The winter gardens smelled of earth and frost.

  Dead lavender stalks crackled underfoot. The rose beds lay dormant beneath layers of mulch, skeletal branches reaching toward a pale sky. Somewhere near the eastern wall, a gardener was already turning soil for spring planting, the rhythmic scrape of the spade carrying across the cold air.

  Fran walked slowly, cane tapping against the gravel path. Lord Merrowe matched her pace without comment, hands clasped behind his back in the easy posture of a man accustomed to strolling estates and making deals between the rows.

  “—and the eastern baronies have the worst of it,” Fran was saying. “Brenwaith alone took in over two hundred displaced families after the Golden Banner raids. They’re living in barns, common rooms, anywhere with a roof. It’s been months.”

  “Charity has its limits,” Merrowe said. “Blankets and coin run out. People need permanence.”

  “Exactly.” Fran paused to catch her breath, leaning slightly on the cane. The wound still pulled when she walked too far, a persistent ache beneath her ribs. “I keep thinking of the almshouses in the northern kingdoms. Small residential courts built around shared gardens. Designed for people with nowhere else to go.”

  Merrowe tilted his head. “You’re thinking of building something like that here?”

  “If it’s possible.” She resumed walking, slower now. “But it would take time. Planning. Land. An obscene amount of money.”

  “Which you happen to have.”

  She glanced at him. “Duke Alric’s inheritance is sitting in vaults doing nothing useful. It might as well do something permanent.”

  A faint smile crossed Merrowe’s face. “You sound like someone planning to stay awhile, Your Grace.”

  Fran allowed herself a smile. “Long enough to see it started, at least.”

  If you want wise investments and lasting infrastructure, Thalyra had said that morning, barely looking up from her ledgers, Osbert Merrowe’s your man. He knows where the money grows—and where to bury it so no one finds it.

  There had been more, of course. The usual morning briefing: border reports, supply inventories, the endless correspondence that accumulated overnight like snow. And another matter—one Fran had been avoiding.

  The Crown Council seat, Thalyra had said, with the particular tone she reserved for topics Fran didn’t want to discuss. It’s been vacant two years. First your uncle was too ill to decide, then you needed time to settle. But now—

  After Winterfire, Fran had said, and Thalyra had not pressed.

  Now, walking beside Merrowe in the frozen garden, Fran wondered if she should have pressed herself. They reached a stone bench near the fountain—currently drained and empty, awaiting spring repairs. Merrowe gestured to it.

  “Shall we?”

  Fran nodded, grateful. She sat carefully, the cane propped against her knee. Merrowe settled beside her with the air of a man about to negotiate something interesting.

  “So,” he said. “Permanent housing for displaced families. Gardens, shared spaces, dignified lodging. How many are we talking about?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Fran pulled her cloak tighter against the cold. “Hundreds, maybe more. The refugee crisis won’t end when the Golden Banner is dealt with. Vernador’s civil war is still pushing people across our borders.”

  “And you want to give them more than temporary shelter.”

  “I want to give them stability. A place where they can rebuild without fear of being moved again when the next crisis comes.”

  Merrowe was quiet for a moment, gaze drifting across the dormant garden. “It’s a good idea. Expensive, but good.” He glanced at her. “You’ll need land close to villages—access to markets, work, community. Not isolated charity wards that turn into forgotten slums.”

  “Exactly. But the logistics escape me.”

  “The logistics are the easy part.” Merrowe’s voice had warmed; this was territory he knew. “Land, labor, materials—those can be arranged. The harder question is administration. Who runs them? Who decides who gets shelter and who doesn’t? You’ll need people who can’t be bribed and won’t play favorites.”

  “And you know such people?”

  “I know people who know people.” He smiled, that easy courtier’s smile that had made Fran wary of her Master of Coin for months. “The right connections in the guilds. Master builders who owe me favors. Landlords with unused property who might be persuaded to donate—or sell cheaply, if approached correctly.”

  Fran’s tone softened. “That’s why Lady Thalyra suggested you.”

  “Did she now?” Merrowe looked genuinely pleased. “And here I thought she merely tolerated me.”

  “She tolerates everyone. But she trusts your judgment on investments.”

  “High praise from Lady Velgrin.” He leaned back slightly. “All right, Your Grace. I’ll help. On one condition.”

  Fran raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”

  “You let me be honest with you.”

  She studied him. “About what?”

  Merrowe’s expression sobered. “About Desim Vannor.”

  The name settled between them like frost.

  “Vannor and I were friends,” Merrowe continued. “We came up together. I knew he cut corners. I knew his associates were... creative with their expense reports. But I never thought—” He stopped, drew a breath. “I closed my eyes to things I shouldn’t have. I wasn’t part of it, but I wasn’t innocent either.”

  Fran said nothing.

  “I understand why you never fully trusted me,” Merrowe said quietly. “Vannor’s corruption ran deep. The council knew it, I knew it, and I did nothing. That’s on me.” He paused. “But I want you to know—I was never part of his schemes. Just... willfully blind to them.”

  Fran considered him. The cold air stung her cheeks. Somewhere behind them, the gardener’s spade kept working, steady and rhythmic.

  “I believe you,” she said finally.

  Merrowe blinked. “You do?”

  “You could have hidden it. Could have let me find out another way.” She shifted her weight, the cane creaking slightly. “The fact that you’re telling me now means something.”

  “It means I should have told you a year ago.”

  “Perhaps.” Fran’s voice was matter-of-fact. “But you’re telling me now. And I’m choosing to trust you with this project—with the duchy’s funds, with my inheritance, with something that matters.” She looked at him directly. “That should tell you what I think of your judgment now, regardless of your past mistakes.”

  Merrowe’s throat worked. He looked away, blinking hard. “Your Grace—”

  “Everyone in Foher has made mistakes,” Fran said. “Some worse than others. The question is what we do after.”

  He nodded, unable to speak for a moment.

  Fran let the silence settle, then moved on with quiet efficiency. “So. The project. What do we need first?”

  Merrowe cleared his throat, visibly collecting himself. “Land surveys. A list of viable sites. Architects who can design communal housing that doesn’t feel like a prison.” His voice steadied as he fell into practical details. “And we’ll need Master Merovein to review every expense.”

  Fran’s lips twitched. “How is that going, by the way? Working with Merovein?”

  Merrowe’s expression transformed into something between fondness and exasperation. “Do you know, Your Grace, that man threatened me with a ledger last week? An actual leather-bound ledger. Raised it over his head like a club when I suggested we could ‘estimate’ the grain transport costs.”

  Despite herself, Fran smiled. “I can picture it.”

  “We argue every single day.” Merrowe shook his head. “But I’ll admit—he’s starting to grow on me. Like a particularly stubborn barnacle.”

  “Does he feel the same way?”

  “I think so. Though he’d sooner eat his own quill than admit it.” Merrowe’s smile turned rueful. “I told my wife last week that I’ve spent more time with Narlan in the last three months than with her. She asked me who was worse. I’m still deciding.”

  Fran laughed—a genuine sound, brief but real. “Well. At least the duchy’s finances are in good hands.”

  “The most terrifyingly competent hands in Velmora.” Merrowe sobered slightly. “But in all seriousness, Your Grace—when you tell him about this project, make sure you have all the numbers ready. He’ll want to know exactly how much you’re planning to spend, where it’s coming from, and what the expected return is.”

  “Return?” Fran frowned. “This isn’t an investment in the traditional sense—”

  “It is to Merovein. He’ll want to see reduced refugee costs, decreased banditry from desperate people, increased local trade from new residents, long-term stability.” Merrowe counted on his fingers. “If you frame it as strategic resource allocation rather than pure charity, he’ll be more amenable.”

  “That’s... actually helpful.”

  “I’ve learned how to speak his language. Mostly through self-defense.”

  They sat in companionable silence for a moment. A crow landed on the fountain’s edge, cocked its head at them, then flew off.

  “There’s something else,” Fran said.

  Merrowe glanced at her. “Your Grace?”

  “The Crown’s tax collection. The grain shipments we’re required to send to Velarith.” She kept her voice level, almost casual. “Some of those resources could be... redirected.”

  Merrowe went very still. “Redirected.”

  “To the villages that need them most. The ones still recovering from raids. The baronies supporting refugees.” Fran met his eyes. “Small amounts. Nothing that would trigger an audit. But enough to make a difference.”

  “That’s—” Merrowe stopped, recalculated. “That’s treason, Your Grace.”

  “I know,” she said. “That’s why it has to be small, clean, and temporary.”

  Merrowe studied her face, searching for something—doubt, perhaps, or recklessness. He found neither.

  “You’re serious,” he said.

  “The Crown is summoning me to trial for a charter I didn’t forge. They’re threatening to strip Foher’s autonomy over an administrative error.” Fran’s voice hardened slightly. “Meanwhile, Duke Thareth sits in Velarith counting his gold while our people starve in barns. So yes, Lord Merrowe. I’m serious.”

  Merrowe let out a slow breath. “And you want me to arrange it.”

  “You know the right people. The merchants who won’t ask questions. The routes that can’t be easily traced.” She tilted her head. “Can it be done?”

  “It can.” He rubbed his jaw, thinking. “But not without Merovein’s cooperation. He reviews every ledger, every shipment manifest. If the numbers don’t match reality, he’ll know.”

  “So we convince him.”

  Merrowe laughed—a short, disbelieving sound. “Your Grace, convincing Narlan Merovein to falsify tax records is like convincing a rock to dance. The man is incorruptible.”

  “And that is precisely why he sits in council. But I’m not asking him to steal. I’m asking him to prioritize Foher’s survival over Velarith’s greed.” Fran’s gaze was steady. “He’s loyal to this duchy. If we frame it as protecting our people during a crisis—”

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  “He’ll still threaten me with a ledger.”

  “Probably.” Fran’s lips quirked. “But he’ll think about it first.”

  Merrowe considered this. The wind picked up, stirring dead leaves across the path. When he spoke again, his voice was thoughtful.

  “You’ve changed, Your Grace,” Merrowe said quietly. “When you first arrived, you apologized for existing. Now you’re planning to embezzle from the Crown.” His smile was faint but genuine. “It’s growth.”

  Fran snorted. “I prefer to think of it as a different kind of healing: we stop the bleeding, then we stitch the ledger.”

  “Merovein’s going to hate that phrase.”

  “Then we’ll use different words.”

  Merrowe shook his head, but he was smiling. “All right. I’ll approach him. Carefully. Very carefully.” He paused. “But Your Grace—if this goes wrong—”

  “If someone must answer for it, it’s me. Not you. Not the clerks. Not Merovein.”

  “That’s not what I was going to say.” Merrowe exhaled from his nose. “If this goes wrong, it’ll give Thareth more ammunition. The trial’s already dangerous enough.”

  “I know.” Fran looked out across the garden, at the bare earth waiting for spring. “But I’d rather face charges helping my people than face them having done nothing.”

  Merrowe studied her for a long moment. Then he nodded once, decisive. “Then I’m in.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Wait until Merovein agrees without attempting murder.”

  Fran smiled faintly. They sat in silence again, the cold seeping through their cloaks. Finally, she shifted, preparing to stand.

  “One more thing,” she said. “The Crown Council representative. The seat’s been empty too long.”

  Merrowe’s expression became more guarded. “A dangerous appointment, given current circumstances. Whoever you choose will be walking into a viper’s nest.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m asking you.” Fran gripped her cane, using it to lever herself upright. Merrowe rose as well, offering his arm. She took it without comment. “Whoever fills that seat will speak for Foher in Velarith. Do you have names? People who could survive Velarith’s politics without being eaten alive—or turned against us?”

  “Someone Thareth can’t manipulate,” Merrowe added.

  “Exactly.”

  They began walking back toward the palace, their pace slow and measured. Merrowe was quiet for several steps, thinking.

  “There are a few names,” he said finally. “Old contacts. Families with connections to the court but no particular love for the current regime.” He met her eyes. “Let me write to a few trusted friends. Test the waters. See what names surface.”

  Fran nodded. “Do it. But quietly. I don’t want Thareth to know I’m looking until I’ve already chosen.”

  “Understood.” Merrowe inclined his head. “I’ll have something for you within the week.”

  “Good.”

  They reached the palace steps. Fran paused, turning to face him fully.

  “Thank you, Lord Merrowe. For all of this.”

  He dipped his head, almost embarrassed. “It’s an honor to be trusted, Your Grace. Even if it does mean arguing with Merovein for the foreseeable future.”

  “Think of it as character building.”

  “I’ll remind him of that when he threatens me with accounting ledgers.”

  Fran smiled—brief but genuine. “Keep me informed. About the land surveys, the representative search, all of it.”

  “Of course.” Merrowe’s expression softened slightly. “And Your Grace? The almshouses project—it’s a good thing you’re doing. Not just politically. Genuinely good.”

  She looked at him, surprised by the sincerity.

  “People will remember it,” he continued. “Long after the trial, long after all this court nonsense fades. They’ll remember that you built something that lasted.”

  Fran’s throat tightened. She nodded once, not trusting her voice.

  Merrowe bowed and turned to leave.

  Fran watched him go, then looked back at the winter gardens. The dead lavender. The dormant roses. The turned earth waiting for spring.

  Something permanent, she thought. Something that would outlast the crisis.

  She gripped her cane and climbed the steps, already thinking about numbers and ledgers and how to convince a rock to dance for the people who needed it most.

  When she entered her chambers, Silja was waiting with a dress already laid across the bed.

  “The deep blue, Your Grace.” Silja smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the silk. “With the silver linings. As you requested.”

  Fran touched the fabric—cool, heavy, finely woven. Its deep blue almost perfectly matched the stone of her engagement ring. She hadn’t planned it, but once she noticed, she didn’t change her mind.

  “Help me with the laces,” she said, turning her back.

  Silja’s fingers were deft and familiar. She’d been helping and dressing Fran for a year now, and knew the rhythms of her body—where the scar pulled, where the muscles had wasted during the long weeks of fever and broth. The corset settled against Fran’s ribs, and she drew a careful breath.

  “Tighter,” she said.

  Silja paused. “Your Grace?”

  “The laces. Tighter.”

  The corset cinched another inch. Fran’s breath caught—partly from the pressure, partly from the pull in her side where the wound still hadn’t fully healed. She braced one hand against the bedpost and waited for the spots to clear from her vision.

  This is foolish, she thought. You know it’s foolish.

  “Is that...” Silja’s voice was carefully neutral. “Are you certain, Your Grace?”

  “Certain enough.”

  A younger maid—Milda, borrowed from the kitchens for the evening—watched with wide eyes as Silja finished the lacework, hovering nearby with ribbons and hairpins. Fran caught her expression in the mirror and almost laughed. She looked like a woman preparing for battle, not a banquet.

  The dress transformed her. That was the point, after all. The deep blue silk caught the candlelight and turned it to something richer, something that drew the eye and held it. The silver embroidery along the bodice and sleeves glinted like frost on winter glass.

  She looked… Well, not beautiful—she never thought she was. Striking, perhaps. Deliberate, undoubtedly. Like someone trying too hard.

  Fran pushed the thought away and reached for her jewelry. The sapphire earrings first, then the silver chain with its small pendant—a gift from Gale, months ago, before everything.

  “The cane, Your Grace?” Milda asked.

  Fran looked at it. She’d been using it for weeks now. The servants had grown accustomed to it. The court had stopped pretending not to notice.

  “No,” she said. “Not tonight.”

  Milda’s expression flickered, but she said nothing. It was Silja who spoke, instead.

  “Your Grace.” The maid’s voice was sharp, concerned. “The physicians said—”

  “I know what they said. I am a healer too.” The sharpness in her voice surprised even her.

  “Then you should know that walking without support could—”

  Fran exhaled slowly, forcing the edge from her tone. “I appreciate the concern, Silja. But tonight I need to walk without it.”

  Silja’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but she nodded. Milda looked between them, uncertain.

  Fran met Silja’s gaze in the mirror. “How do I look?”

  “You’re beautiful, Your Grace,” Milda exclaimed before she could catch herself.

  Beside her, Silja’s expression was eloquent in its silence. “Beautiful, yes,” she said finally. “But tired, too.”

  Honest as always. Fran almost smiled. “Good enough, then. Help me with the hair.”

  While Milda arranged the dark waves shot through with grey into something elegant enough for court, Fran let her thoughts drift.

  This morning’s conversation with Merrowe sat uneasily in her chest. Not the charity houses—that felt right, felt necessary in a way that few things did these days. But the other part. The grain shipments. The redirected taxes.

  What she was planning was not so different from what Vannor, Vos, and Avessa had done. Skimming from the Crown, hiding it in false ledgers, playing games with numbers that didn’t belong to her. So what was the difference?

  The difference, she told herself, was purpose. Those three had stolen for greed. She was stealing for—what? Justice? Survival? Petty revenge? And above all, did the purpose matter, if the method was the same?

  She didn’t have an answer.

  A soft weight landed on her foot, interrupting the flow of her thoughts. She looked down to find Rudy staring up at her, tail flicking against the floor. Nymph was already on the bed, walking deliberately across the deep blue silk with an air of feline entitlement.

  “No,” Fran said firmly. “Off. Both of you.”

  Nymph ignored her, while Rudy meowed plaintively and tried to climb her skirt.

  “I mean it.”

  Silja scooped Rudy up before Fran could, and deposited him on the chair by the window, where he immediately began grooming himself with offended dignity. Nymph required more negotiation—and eventually, bribery in the form of a ribbon—before she consented to vacate the dress.

  “They’ve been difficult all day,” Silja murmured, collecting the ribbon before Nymph could shred it.

  “Keep them in here tonight,” Fran said. “I don’t want a diplomatic incident to break out because someone stepped on their tails during the banquet.”

  Silja’s mouth twitched; Milda actually snorted before remembering herself.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  The walk to the Great Hall was longer without the cane. Each step sent a small shock of pain through her left side, and by the time she reached the main corridor, her breath was coming shorter than it should. She kept her spine straight, her pace measured, her expression serene, and went to meet her court.

  The Great Hall had been transformed.

  Silver lanterns hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting pools of soft light across the evergreen garlands that adorned every pillar and archway. Crystal chandeliers blazed with hundreds of candles, their light multiplied by mirrors and polished silver until the whole room seemed to glow. The long tables had been pushed back to clear space for dancing, and musicians played in the gallery above—something bright and traditional, the kind of tune that had echoed through these halls for generations.

  Every noble family within a day’s ride had come. Lords and ladies from Vartis, the nearby baronies, even a few from the southern counties. They filled the hall like a glittering, chattering sea—velvets and silks in deep winter colors, jewels catching the light, laughter rising and falling in waves.

  Winterfire. The festival of renewal. The longest night giving way to longer days.

  A year ago, she had stood in this same hall and spoken Gale’s name aloud for the first time. Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep. She hadn’t known if he would come. She hadn’t known anything except that she was drowning, and she needed someone who might understand.

  He had come. He had stayed. And somewhere between the politics and the danger and the quiet evenings in her study, she had fallen in love with him.

  I hate winter, he’d told her once, back in early autumn when the first chill crept into the air. They’d been in the library, books spread between them, and he’d been complaining about the cold with theatrical misery. Despise it. Loathe it with every fiber of my frost-bitten being. But celebrations... His eyes had softened. Our first Winterfire together will be memorable, Dove. I promise you that.

  She had smiled then, teasing him about his dramatics, and not told him why she’d insisted on a winter ceremony. Hadn’t explained that she wanted to marry him on the anniversary of the night their story began.

  By now, she should be standing here in green silk, House Elarion’s color, watching him wait for her at the far end of the hall. She should be three months pregnant, maybe four, the slight swell of it hidden beneath her gown.

  Instead—

  “Your Grace!” A voice cut through her thoughts. “How lovely to see you recovered!”

  Fran blinked, composing her expression just in time to greet Lady Esabel Cormwell, who was advancing with the determination of a woman who had gossip to share.

  “You look radiant tonight,” Lady Esabel continued, air-kissing near Fran’s cheek. “That dress—exquisite. The color suits you wonderfully. Though I must say, some of us were concerned when we heard about the royal summons. Such dreadful timing, a trial during winter...”

  “The postponement was granted,” Fran said smoothly. “Spring will be more convenient for all parties.”

  “Of course, of course.” Lady Esabel’s eyes glittered with poorly concealed curiosity. “And your health? The physicians are satisfied?”

  “Quite satisfied.”

  “Wonderful. Simply wonderful.” A pause, loaded with meaning. “I couldn’t help noticing you’ve left your cane behind tonight. A sign of recovery, I hope?”

  A sign of stupidity, Fran thought, but smiled. “I’m feeling much improved.”

  “Excellent news. Excellent.” Lady Esabel leaned closer, dropping her voice to a theatrical whisper. “Have you heard about poor Lady Selmine Thareth and her mysterious ailment? Between you and me...” She glanced around conspiratorially. “I suspect the ailment has more to do with a certain stable master than any genuine illness.”

  Fran kept her expression neutral. She’d heard the rumors, of course. Half the kingdom had. “How unfortunate,” she said. “I hope she recovers swiftly.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she will. These things have a way of... resolving themselves. But enough of unpleasant matters. Tonight is for celebration! Will you be dancing, Your Grace?”

  “I’m afraid my recovery doesn’t extend quite that far.”

  “A pity. The music is lovely this year.”

  She escaped Lady Esabel only to be intercepted by Lord Barrin, who wanted to discuss grain tariffs; then by Lady Kilridge, who complimented her dress three times while fishing for details about the trial; then by a minor baron whose name she couldn’t remember, who asked with apparently genuine concern whether she was eating enough.

  As she moved through the crowd, she noted the absences as much as the faces.

  Edric Thorne would be toasting Winterfire at Lakeholt with his sons and grandchildren.

  Thalyra had begged off, retreating to her house in the upper quarters with her shutters closed, her husband barely two months in the ground.

  Sir Rhyve and Lady Olyan stood near the dais, already surrounded by local gentry seeking favors and judgments.

  Near the center of the room, Fran caught sight of Lord Merrowe in animated conversation with a cluster of merchants. He saw her, raised his cup in salute, and returned to his discussion.

  Master Merovein stood near one of the tables, methodically sampling pastries with the air of a man conducting quality control. His wife and daughter were at his side, looking at the hall with the wide-eyed wonder of people still not accustomed to courtly life.

  Through it all, she smiled. Nodded. Deflected questions with practiced ease.

  And through it all, she watched for him.

  Three weeks since his return. Three weeks of watching him retreat further into himself, into the West Tower, into bottles of wine that appeared and disappeared with alarming regularity.

  She’d tried. Gods, she’d tried.

  Sitting with him in silence because he couldn’t bear conversation. Reading aloud from books he didn’t hear. Touching his hand across the table only to feel him pull away—not cruelly, just... away.

  Like she was something dangerous. Something that might shatter him if he let her too close.

  She didn’t know what had happened in Kentar—only that he had come back burned, half-blind, and with a line of silver frost at his wrist whose nature he refused to explain. But whatever it was, it had carved something out of him, left him hollow in ways she couldn’t reach.

  Finally, she found him near the wine table. Gale stood slightly apart from the crowd, a goblet in his bandaged hand, watching the festivities with an expression that was technically pleasant and entirely empty.

  He’d dressed for the occasion: hair neatly combed back, dark coat, silver buttons—the kind of formal elegance he usually complained about, and yet that seemed completely natural on him. But something was wrong. His eyes were glazed. His posture too still.

  The goblet in his hand was already half-empty. As she watched, he raised it and drank deeply.

  He’s drinking, she realized. Already.

  She’d seen him drink before, of course. Wine at dinner, brandy after difficult conversations, the occasional celebratory excess. But this was different. This was steady. Methodical. The drinking of a man who wanted to be anywhere but inside his own head.

  Like Alven, a voice whispered, and she flinched.

  The balcony in Durnhal. Wine-sour breath and hands that wouldn’t let go. The memory rose sharp as the slap she’d delivered to end it.

  Gale wasn’t Alven. She knew that. But watching him raise the goblet again, watching him drink like it was medicine…

  She crossed the room toward him. The corset dug into her ribs with every breath. Her left side throbbed in time with her heartbeat, but she kept her spine straight and her steps even and pretended she didn’t notice the way her body screamed at her with every movement.

  “Master Dekarios.” She kept her voice light, courtly. “I see you’ve found the wine.”

  He turned. His eyes—eye, the right one still healing beneath its bandage—moved over her. The dress. The careful styling. The effort she’d made.

  “Your Grace.” He inclined his head, perfectly polite. “You look... the dress is beautiful.”

  The dress, she noted. Not you. Just an observation, flat and distant, like he was commenting on the weather.

  “Thank you.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “How are you feeling?”

  “Well enough.” He took another sip. “The wine is decent. Better than Durnhal’s, anyway.”

  “Gale—”

  “You should circulate.” His tone was pleasant, distant. “The guests will want to see you. The Iron Duchess, holding court on Winterfire. It’s the sort of thing they’ll talk about for weeks.”

  She stared at him. She wanted to scream, to grab him, to shake him until the truth finally spilled out and he let her help.

  “I’ll be here,” he said, already turning away. “If you need me.”

  She always needed him, she thought. Of course she did. She needed the idiot who made it snow with a cleaning spell, who complained about the cold even in summer. He was right there, and a thousand miles away.

  But she didn’t say any of it. She couldn’t. Not here, not with half the court watching.

  So she smiled, and nodded, and turned back to the celebration.

  The Iron Duchess had work to do.