She made her way back across the stableyard. The snow would fall heavily for another glass or two, she thought, but then end … she should be able to make good progress. Inside, she found the kitchen crowded with children—the last thing she expected—all lined up along the table with cloths tied around their necks, Cook supervising as they kneaded little lumps of dough. Arian edged past them; Cook gave her a nod, and paused long enough to say, “Small dining room. My lord’s down now.”

The small dining room had a fire lit and a great covered tureen that smelled of porridge in the middle of the table. Dorrin looked up as Arian came in. Today she was dressed in dark woolen trousers, a gray woolen shirt, and a well-worn leather doublet, marked with obvious signs of a sword and dagger. “Your horse all right?” She pointed to a place set with plate, bowl, and eating utensils.

“Your squire Gwenno had already groomed him; he was eating hay. I must leave—”

“In this snow? Surely you can wait a day—I judge it will end later but be deep in places.”

“I’m used to winter travel,” Arian said. “The taig woke me; there’s something wrong in Lyonya.” She uncovered the tureen and served Dorrin a bowl of porridge, then one for herself. “Your cook is—”

“A tyrant in the kitchen. I know. Are the children in there yet?”

“Yes. I think she’s teaching them to make bread.”

“We all think—their tutor and I and the Marshal-General of Gird—that learning practical, useful things will be good for these children. I do not want to dwell on the life they had before. I’m trying to make it different in every way. How did they seem?”

“Energetic. Busy. I did see one of them throw a lump of frozen mud at another yesterday afternoon, from my window.”

Dorrin shrugged. “We can’t make them adult in a day—or even in a year, I suspect. A little mischief—it’s much less than it was—doesn’t worry me as much as cringing fear or sullenness. That’s disappeared since about the Autumn Evener. We keep them busy, active, and learning. If you can believe it, there were eight-winters children who had never learned to read. Not even started.”

Arian paused, spoon partway to her mouth. “Your taig-sense—it’s not for the land as much as for the people—the children.”

Dorrin looked surprised. “I suppose so. I never thought of that as taig-sense … but you and I were both trained in leadership.” She went on eating.

Arian nodded. “Yes, leadership. What you’re doing with the children—the way you talk about them—I can feel your attention to them, and it’s much like mine to the taig. Did you never think of having children?”

“Never,” Dorrin said, with emphasis. “This was a responsibility I never looked for. But the children deserve far better than what they had.”

Arian ate the rest of her porridge before it chilled. One of the assistant cooks came in with a platter of sliced ham and another of eggs stirred with vegetables; she could see bits of green and red.