“My father doesn’t get outraged about anything except broken chisels,” Diana said. “Anyway, I haven’t got any virtue left to ravage.”

“Some charioteer, I suppose.” He shook his head. “You Roman ladies. Not a real warrior in your whole city, so you fall all over any substitute you can find.”

“Give me a little credit, O great leader of rebels,” Diana snorted. “It wasn’t any charioteer, just some sweaty Praetorian of Otho’s. Stank like a brewery and didn’t last long enough to boil an egg.”

“Ah.” A slight pause. “I trust your family had him thrown to the lions?”

“Oh, my family doesn’t know. It wasn’t their business.” She’d gone looking for Piso’s head after the Othonian uprising, and a Praetorian guard had somehow ended up with it. She’d had to buy it off him, and he hadn’t wanted money. “It was a matter of honor, sort of,” Diana temporized, seeing Llyn’s glance. She didn’t know why she was telling him when no one else in the family knew, but she went on. “My decision. So it didn’t concern my family.”

They’d only fuss, and why should they? Piso’s shade was laid to rest, and Cornelia had her peace of mind back. Well worth it all around. “Do Druids really eat people?” Diana asked.

“With mistletoe sprigs. Look—it’s happening.”

The foal came slithering into the world, miles of leg and sticky tufts of mane. “That’s a fine little colt you’ve got,” Diana said as Llyn rubbed him dry with a wisp of hay. “A chestnut, too. I’ll be wanting him for the Reds soon.”

“Let him dry off first.”

The little colt looked around with wide eyes as his mother nosed him. “This might even be better than the races,” Diana said, smiling.

“It’s the part I like best.” Llyn squatted back on his heels. The little colt struggled, trying to get his legs under him, and the mare nudged him encouragingly. In half an hour he was up, wobbly but standing, and his fluffy coat was drying. “Definitely a chestnut,” said Diana.

Llyn rose. “Better leave him to his mother.”

They wandered outside, the black dog tagging behind. It was full dark now, and a fine warm night. The stars were finally free of rain clouds, and Llyn tilted his head up to stare at them. Diana wondered if they looked any different from the stars he grew up with.

She touched his arm. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

Her father didn’t notice how late she was to dinner, but then he never did. Diana supposed he was an odd sort of father, but she reckoned herself for a strange daughter. They were really more like sire and filly than father and daughter—blood ties and a certain fondness, but certainly they would neither have dreamed of interfering in each others’ lives. Strange or not, it suited them both.