Heribert sat beside Blessing, who for once was frowning at tablet and stylus and with awkward strokes getting some of her letters right. Anna sat down on the carpet near Blessing’s feet, and went back to mending a tear in Blessing’s other shift. Julia sat on the bench, embroidering. Lord Jonas was downstairs playing dice with Odei; those two could go at it for hours, and the spill of dice across the floor was, like a poet’s song at a feast, a steady accompaniment to other labors. Berda sat in a shadowed corner grinding a root into powder. The light came gloomy through the open windows, and it was cool, but no one wanted to shutter themselves in.

Elene sniffed, wiped her nose, and looked up, holding a lion in one hand. “Do you smell that?”

Berthold stifled a yawn. “Smell what? I hate sitting indoors all day”

Berda glanced up as well. “It is sharp,” she said, touching her nose.

The lady frowned. She did not set down the lion. “Now it’s gone. I thought. …” She, too, yawned, and caught herself.

Even Anna yawned and almost pricked herself with her needle. Her grunt of frustration set off an avalanche of yawns among all of them, except Heribert.

“The curve here, Your Highness. It is uneven.”

“I’m just tired! I can do better!”

“Yes,” he agreed. “So it appears from the way you are yawning. There is a sharp glamour in the air. It tingles in the bones.”

Berthold pushed the chess pieces aside and pillowed his head on his arms. “Just a nap, and we’ll start again.”

Elene’s head lolled back. The lion fell out of her hand, and when it struck the floor she jerked upright. “What is that?” she demanded. “A glamour … a spell …”

Anna was so tired. The languor smothered her. The walls spoke in whispers, reminding her of the peace of the sleep which awaits every soul, the crossing into death… .

Soft footsteps mounted the stair-step ladder. A middle-aged man appeared in the opened trap. He was named Brother Petrus, one of the holy clerics who served the Holy Mother.

“Up here, my lord,” he said as he clambered out.

She pricked herself with the needle, and the pain woke her. A drop of blood swelled.

Blessing had fallen asleep against Heribert’s shoulder. Berthold roused dully, lifting his head. Elene struggled, reaching for the lion she had dropped on the floor. Berda snored softly, head lolling back against the wall, her throat exposed.

An angel climbed out of the trap and paused to regard the chess table and the pair of young nobles fighting sleep.

“Well,” he said in a melodious voice so soothing Anna was sure he tamed wild beasts with it. She recognized it immediately as the voice of the man who had been talking to Wolfhere. “Conrad’s doomed daughter and Villam’s lost son. How unexpected this is. How handsome they look together, dark and fair!”

Elene grunted, got hold of the lion, and dug it into her palm. Her eyes flared. “Who are you? What sorcery … 7”