And my father would say proudly, “You are born for trouble, Morgan.”

That was why I loved my father so, because he saw me truly. He looked in my eyes and he knew. Morgause and I had dark eyes, deer eyes like our mother‘s, but mine were not quite like: One of my eyes peeped shadowy emerald green, and one violet, like deepest dusky amethyst. My eyes marked me as fey right from the start. Most folk did not notice—they just saw dark eyes, almost black—or they chose not to notice. To all the others, even my mother, my sister and I were a sort of two-headed animal called Morgan-Morgause or, more commonly, “Girls!” Although Morgause was a year older, we might as well have been twins. They dressed us alike, lessoned us alike, scolded us alike when our noses were dirty and exhorted us alike to sit still and keep our legs together. But Daddy and I knew that I was not the least bit like prissy Morgause.

“And how is my beautiful Morgause?” he would ask her next. He never called me beautiful, even though Morgause and I looked much alike, with our mother’s porcelain skin and smooth sable hair. I knew we looked alike because folk said so, and also because Mother sometimes let us look at ourselves in her mirror. Father had gifted her with it, a mirror of polished silver, worthy of a queen. Most noblewomen had a circle of polished bronze for a mirror if they had any at all.

I did not mind that Daddy did not call me beautiful, because it took nothing to be beautiful, and I knew he liked my mischief better.

“I’ve been good, Daddy,” Morgause would answer, almost in a whisper.

“I knew it.” He would give us each a hug. “You’re my good little girl. And Morgan here is my most excellent daredevil. You’re like scabbard and sword. You go together.”

Then he would hug each of us again and kiss us again and send us off to bed with a gentle swat to hurry us on our way.

The swat did no good in my case. I was not one to stay in bed.

Morgause and I slept in the same chamber, with Nurse on a pallet between us. Nurse snored. Morgause slept quiet as a mouse all night long, flat on her back with her hands outside the coverlet the way Nurse told us to lie. I slept sometimes. More often I lay awake and wondered about things: What was war for? Was it fun? Why did women not do it? Why did women always have to keep their legs together, even on horses, riding sideways? Why must I keep my hands outside the coverlet ?