“There’s nothing you cannot do, Katsa.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

But he seemed determined not to argue. He smiled again and leaned against the wooden railing that separated her lane from the others. “What do you think will happen at Randa’s court tomorrow?” he asked.

“Truly, I don’t know,” Katsa said. “Randa will be very angry.”

“I don’t like that you’re protecting me from his anger, Katsa. I don’t like it at all.”

“I’m sorry, Giddon, as I’m sorry for the cut on your neck. Shall we return to the castle?” She lifted the strap of the quiver over her head, and set it on the ground. He watched her, quietly, and a small panic began to stir in her chest.

“You should let me protect you,” he said.

“You can’t protect me from the king. It would be fatal to you, and a waste of your energies. Let’s go back to the castle.”

“Marry me,” he said, “and our marriage will protect you.”

Well then, he had said it, as Po had predicted, and it hit her like one of Po’s punches to the stomach. She didn’t know where to look; she couldn’t stand still. She put her hand to her head, she put it to the railing. She willed herself to think.

“Our marriage wouldn’t protect me,” she said. “Randa wouldn’t pardon me simply because I married.”

“But he would be more lenient,” Giddon said. “Our engagement would offer him an alternative. It would be dangerous for him to try to punish you, and he knows that. If we say we’re to be married, then he can send us away from court; he can send us here, and he’ll be out of your reach, and you out of his. And there will be some pretense of good feeling between you.”

And she would be married, and to Giddon. She would be his wife, the lady of his house. She’d be charged with entertaining his wretched guests. Expected to hire and dismiss his servants, based on their skill with a pastry, or some such nonsense. Expected to bear him children, and stay at home to love them. She would go to his bed at night, Giddon’s bed, and lie with a man who considered a scratch to her face an affront to his person. A man who thought himself her protector—her protector when she could outduel him if she used a toothpick to his sword.

She breathed it away, breathed away the fury. He was a friend, and loyal to the Council. She wouldn’t speak what she thought. She would speak what Raffin had told her to speak.

“Giddon,” she said. “Surely you’ve heard I don’t intend to marry.”

“But would you refuse a suitable proposal? And you must admit, it seems a solution to your problem with the king.”

“Giddon.” He stood before her, his face even, his eyes warm. So confident. He didn’t imagine she could refuse him. And perhaps that was forgivable, for perhaps no other woman would. “Giddon. You need a wife who will give you children. I’ve never wished children. You must marry a woman who wishes babies.”