Sereva wanted Kit to journey in-country, to look over her new property as soon as possible. “I’ll go with you,” Sereva said. “I can help you make an inventory. I don’t even know how many servants there are on the place, though I’m pretty sure the steward is reliable. Well, he must be, or Granmama would not have left him in charge for so many years.”

“I’ll go,” Kit said. “But in a week or so. I’m so tired of traveling. I need some time to rest.”

“Munetrun is the most restful place I know,” Sereva said with a smile.

“Yes,” said Kit, but she still made no plans to travel.

She made no attempt to return to the charity bank, to take up the threads of that life. She refused to go with Sereva to the various social engagements her cousin attended during the next few days—“banquets, balls, and breakfasts,” as Kit scornfully termed them—even though Sereva assured her she’d be welcome.

“You’re now a woman of property,” Sereva said with a laugh. “Think how well you were received at Corzehia’s party when you had nothing to recommend you but your bloodline. You would be so popular now!”

“Maybe next time,” Kit said, knowing that nothing would induce her to attend another such event. She did not care for parties; she did not care for the trivial interactions of these wealthy and vacuous indigo. Truth to tell, she did not care if she saw another gulden again as long as she lived, either, so what was the point in seeking out any society at all? She would be better off immuring herself in Munetrun, hiding there the rest of her life, seeing no one, speaking to no one, beating down her memories with ruthless fists until they could trouble her no longer.

She should leave the city, but she could not, and she could not have said what tethered her there. Almost as if she was waiting.

*   *   *

The letter came a week after Angeline Marcosa brought news of Kit’s inheritance. She instantly recognized Jex’s handwriting, though his letters were usually terse and this envelope felt thick and heavy. The gulden boy who delivered it stayed only to put it in her hand. When she tried to ask him a question, he shook his head and darted off the porch.

Jex did not expect a reply, then.

She retreated to her room to read the letter, closing the door so no one would disturb her. The goldtongue words seemed to have been written with care—not Jex’s usual hasty scrawl—and she read them as slowly as she imagined they had been committed to the page.

Kit: