She remembered Jaenelle handing her a piece of parchment and explaining something about her needing to sign the document in order to stay in Kaeleer, but she’d still been feeling too weak and woozy to take in anything except that signing would let her stay. And when Luthvian had implied that staying or being sent back to Terreille rested on her decision . . .

“What do I have to do?” Marian asked.

Jaenelle shrugged. “Service in the Eighth Circle? A meal once in a while when I’m staying at my cottage in Ebon Rih would cover the requirements.”

A meal. Would Jaenelle supply the food for her to cook, or would she be expected to provide it? How would she provide it? “Where are we going?”

Now Jaenelle smiled. “Your skills really are required elsewhere. I know someone who needs a housekeeper.”

Marian relaxed a little. If wages were included as well as room and board, she could fulfill her obligation to the Lady’s court.

Jaenelle looked up at the sky and winced. “Come on. We’d better ride the Winds and get there. If I’m late getting back to the Hall, Papa will give me that patient look. I really hate that patient look—especially when I deserve it.”

Before Marian could wrap her mind around the idea that the Queen of Ebon Askavi had a papa who would dare criticize her, even if it was just with a look, Jaenelle took her hand and launched both of them onto the Purple Dusk Wind.

A few minutes later, they dropped from the Winds and landed on a flagstone courtyard in front of an eyrie. Marian winced when she saw the rock-strewn, overgrown mess on one side of the eyrie, but she didn’t have time to decide if it had once been a garden or had always been a wild, overgrown tangle before Jaenelle opened the door without knocking and pulled her inside.

“Lucivar!” Jaenelle called.

A sharp whistle came from another room in the eyrie.

Lucivar? Fear rushed back into Marian as Jaenelle pulled her toward the archway on one side of the big empty room.

“I thought you—” a male voice said.

One last tug and Marian was in the kitchen facing an Eyrien male. A Warlord Prince. Who wore Ebon-gray Jewels.

The room spun. Her knees weakened. Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. Not him. Please, not him.

“Marian,” Jaenelle said, “this is Lucivar Yaslana, the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih. Lucivar, this is Marian—your new housekeeper.”