She wasn’t sure Lucivar would be willing to teach her anything at this point. She didn’t want to think about that, so she focused on the wolf. “Did you manage all right during the blizzard?”

*Yas left food and water for me, and he said I could stay in the front room of the eyrie, and I did stay there at night, but Kaelas and the Lady taught the wolves who live with the High Lord how to make dens out of snow. Kaelas is Arcerian, and they make snow dens to live in during the winter. So I made a den.* He paused. *Now that you and Yas have mated, are you going to have puppies?*

Mother Night. She hadn’t considered that, hadn’t done anything to prevent that. After a quick, desperate counting of days, she breathed a sigh of relief. She was well past her fertile time. She couldn’t imagine how Lucivar would react to being told a woman he no longer wanted was pregnant with his child. She’d learned enough about his past to feel certain his response would be less than friendly.

Work. Hard labor would keep her thoughts from wandering toward things that wouldn’t be.

She dug in and started flinging shovelfuls of snow as far as she could, ignoring Tassle’s repeated offers to use Craft to clear the path for her. Why should he care if the path was cleared. He, and a certain Eyrien Warlord Prince, could just walk above the snow.

*Marian?*

The only person who was trapped in the eyrie by the snow was the female, who was only good for mating and . . . making puppies.

*Marian!*

The whine in that sending finally made her stop and look at the wolf—who looked back at her with woeful eyes, his head and shoulders covered with the snow she’d flung in that direction.

Then someone quietly cleared his throat to gain her attention.

Marian looked to her left—and considered flinging herself into the deepest drift and just staying there.

The High Lord, standing on air, looked down at her. A snow goatee hung from his chin, and his clothes were liberally spattered with the snow she’d thrown at him. Unknowingly, to be sure, but still . . .

“Good morning, High Lord,” Marian said.

He brushed the snow from his chin and clothes. “Good morning, Lady Marian.”

She couldn’t tell by his tone if he was amused or annoyed.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked meekly.

“That would be welcome.”

Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. Could the day get any worse?

Of course, watching him walk down the snow as if he were descending stairs only he could see produced a spurt of resentment that she quickly tamped down. It wasn’t his fault Lucivar hadn’t thought to teach her anything as useful as air walking.