That was when he walked away from her. She hadn’t gone after him. And that morning, when she left the cottage, she didn’t say goodbye.

Stirring out of bleak memory, aware once more of her surroundings, she breathed out a shuddering sigh. The intricately woven artisan carpet beneath her feet blurred as her stinging eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away, a swift fluttering of lashes. They came back. She blinked again. Something warm and wet trickled down her cheek. She smeared it to nothingness with her fingertips, then sank her teeth into her bottom lip.

I’m not weeping. I’m not.

She couldn’t. If she didn’t face Lord Hahren fiercely her cause would be lost before she’d struck the first blow.

Footsteps, approaching. Hurriedly straightening, pressing her back to the wall, she clasped her hands loosely in her lap and rearranged her expression into a mask of serene indifference.

A moment, then the mage who’d abandoned her in this antechamber marched back through the open, arched doorway, crossed to Hahren’s closed chamber door and knocked. Another moment, then she opened it. She must’ve been invited to enter. Without glancing over, the mage went inside. The door thudded softly closed behind her.

Slumping again, Barl rubbed at her temples. A vicious headache was brewing, she could feel the promise of its teeth and talons pounding through her blood. How long would Hahren make her wait, then? Another hour? Another two? The whole night?

Fine. If I have to, I’ll wait the whole night. I’ll wait longer, as long as he likes. He won’t drive me away. I’m not leaving Elvado until I get what I came for.

Time dragged its heels, and she dawdled along with it. The pounding in her blood, in her head, grew steadily worse. And then Hahren’s chamber door opened and the summoned mage came out. This time she looked over.

“You can go in.”

Standing, Barl smoothed the front of her sadly wrinkled tunic. The mage looked her up and down, disapproving, shook her head, then departed.

“Close the door,” Hahren snapped, glaring at a letter on the desk before him. “And don’t sit.”

Barl closed the door, heart sickly thudding, then positioned herself directly in front of the imposing desk. Head up, shoulders back, hands tightly held behind her back. No blinking. No weeping. No losing her temper. Wooing this man to her cause was vital.

“Lord Hahren—”

“Did I give you leave to speak?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then hold your tongue.”

He’d spoken without lifting his gaze, but she stared at the polished timber floor anyway so he wouldn’t see the resentment in her eyes.

At last the arrogant wurzle looked up. “So. You are Barl Lindin.”

“I am, Lord Hahren. My lord, I’m here to—”