The command had baffled her, but it was his home, his business. As she hurried along the domestic corridor to the kitchen, she dismissed all thought of the locks, her focus now centered on a long, hot bath to ease the deep ache in her muscles. Those aches, and the shivers of pain that occasionally came with them, worried her sometimes, but she hadn’t said anything to Jaenelle whenever the Lady asked how she was feeling. Luthvian had warned her that removing her wings was the only way her back would completely heal. But she didn’t want to lose her wings, didn’t want to lose the hope that, someday, she might fly again—even though she was too afraid of crippling herself to even try.

She pushed those thoughts away by focusing on the pleasure of soaking in a hot bath, eating a big piece of casserole for dinner, reading her book, and turning in early so she could get back to her garden at first light tomorrow.

As she stepped through the kitchen archway, she was concentrating so hard on not thinking about her wings that she let out a breathless shriek when the front door suddenly rattled.

With a hand pressed against her chest, Marian stared at the door. There were two solid bolts that provided physical locks for the door as well as the Ebon-gray lock, so even if a “visitor” managed to destroy the front door, he or she still wouldn’t be able to get into the eyrie.

The rattling stopped. The pounding of fist on wood started.

*Tassle?* Marian called on a Purple Dusk psychic thread.

*Marian!*

*There’s someone at the front door. They sound quite . . . insistent.*

*I should call Prothvar?*

Marian hesitated before saying, *Not yet.*

*I am coming back to our den.*

That was good. She’d feel easier if Tassle was within shouting distance.

Yaslana had told her his cousin Prothvar, whom she hadn’t met yet, was staying at the Keep while he was gone and would respond if she needed help for any reason. Knowing one cry for help would bring a Warlord wolf and an Eyrien warrior to her defense gave her the courage to go to the front door and draw back the bolts. Besides, it was possible that it was Yaslana’s cousin, just stopping by to check on her. It would be rude not to open the door.

The woman on the other side of the door was not Yaslana’s cousin. She was young, a Rihlander, a stranger, and was dressed . . .

Marian couldn’t think of a polite way to describe how she was dressed.

“Who are you?” the woman demanded.

“I’m Prince Yaslana’s housekeeper,” Marian replied courteously.

The woman looked at her sweaty, dirt-smeared tunic and trousers, and said, “Oh” in a way that clearly indicated that Marian had been dismissed as unimportant. “I’m here to see Lucivar. He’s expecting me.”