‘What could I possibly say?’

There’s a silence, then she says, ‘Prince Oran, are you asking me to spy on your betrothed?’

‘I don’t know,’ says the prince. ‘I don’t know what it will take to find the truth.’

‘The truth might be that you made a mistake.’ Blackthorn says it straight, not trying to sweeten things. ‘That your hopes and dreams didn’t match up with the reality.’

Prince Oran’s looking like a ghost. He’s looking like the saddest man in the world. Seems to me he’d be better off without the lady. From what I’ve seen of her, I’d be guessing they’re not much of a match.

‘Yes, that is possible,’ he says. ‘I almost believe it. But not quite. Something is wrong, Mistress Blackthorn. Deeply wrong. Lady Flidais . . . She does not behave at all like the woman I was expecting. Not at all.’

‘In what respects?’ Blackthorn asks.

The prince doesn’t answer. The silence goes on, and I’m wondering what the lady might be doing that isn’t very ladylike. Things her own folk must be keeping quiet about. Because he said they hadn’t mentioned anything being out of the usual.

‘If you want me to investigate this,’ says Blackthorn, ‘you need to give me all the relevant information, my lord.’ And when he still doesn’t, she says, ‘I’m not asking these questions to embarrass or shame you or Lady Flidais. I have no reason to do that. Let’s start with something easy. You said the headaches are stopping her from reading and writing. But not all ladies enjoy scholarship.’

‘Flidais does. Did. The letters . . . She wrote poems, beautiful poems. And we shared a love of old tales. She has completely lost her interest in such things. I understand about the headaches. But the Flidais of the letters would still have wanted to talk about poetry and tales, and perhaps to have me read to her. And . . . there was a certain book, Lucian’s Bestiary, which we discussed at some length in our correspondence. A book held in her father’s library; a volume she particularly loved. I had a perfect copy made as her wedding gift. When I gave it to her, she did not know what it was.’

‘Odd,’ observed Blackthorn. ‘You’re convinced a scribe did not pen those letters for Lady Flidais, my lord?’