The faint illumination in her cell came from a torch some distance down the corridor and around the bend. Her first indication that someone was coming was a sudden, massive shadow on the wall, and then a mad flickering of the light as whoever it was tugged the torch out of its sconce.

She recognized the heavy, clinking steps of the mail-enhanced boots worn by the castle guard and braced herself. She thought she’d have more time before they decided what to do with her. But perhaps it was better this way, without an eternity in these cells, replaying the choices she could have made differently.

The torchlight bobbed and weaved, illuminating a large, burly form, and came to a halt before the bars of her cell.

“Gwen?”

Gwen’s head snapped up. She knew that voice. Knew it better than any other in the whole world.

“D-dad?”

Her father tossed the torch down onto the stone, pulled off his helmet, and pressed in against the bars. “Gwen!”

Gwen scrambled to her feet, biting back a sob as she rushed for the bars, reaching through them so Amos could wrap her hands up in his own big, scarred ones. “Dad, how . . . I don’t . . .”

Her father gave a soft, strained laugh, and squeezed her hands hard enough to make her bones ache. She didn’t protest. “I came as soon as I heard. It took me a while to get everything together, but as soon as that lady showed up to tell me what had happened—”

“Lady?” Gwen interrupted, her heart staggering.

“Well, I don’t know what she was. She was dressed like a servant, so I suppose . . .”

“Olivia?” Gwen gasped, hands going somewhat limp now under her father’s. “Was she the same woman who brought a bunch of refugees to the village?”

Her father nodded. “The very same. She brought me your armor, all messed up, straps cut and everything. Gwen, who the hell is she? She’s not any kind of servant, that much I know.”

Gwen fought the somewhat hysterical urge to laugh. “I have no idea. She’s supposed to be Isobelle’s maid, but . . . well, we don’t ask how or why she knows and does the things she does. The villagers from Aberfarthing—they did get to you?”

Her father nodded. “They’re all well, by the way—we’ve sent a few of them on to other villages, and we’re all making sure they’re well cared for.” He let out a sigh, a faint smile on his face. “I forgot how much easier it is to take care of someone else than it is yourself.”