“Allow me to keep some secrets . . . and to offer you a bath. There’s only so much clean clothes can do.” He beckoned to a rotund, balding fellow in a grey servant’s waistcoat. “See to it, would you, Braxov?”

“Already in hand, my lord. Her ladyship anticipated the need.” Braxov offered Rosa a bow as low as his girth would accommodate. “It’s ready as soon as you are, lady.”

She offered him a reluctant smile. A free woman once more, but there was still the matter of the night’s revelation – the kernclaw’s curse. If that got out, no amount of manoeuvring would keep her from the pyre. If she even deserved to evade it.

“Judging by Lord Reveque’s unflattering comment, I suppose I’d better . . .”

“Father!”

A dishevelled waist-high blur shot through the drawing room door. Malachi staggered as the blur wrapped itself around his midriff and beamed up at him with the earnestness unique to fools and children.

“I’m the King of Fellhallow.”

The boy was filthy enough to match his claim. His face was smeared with mud, his knees were scuffed and his smock browner than it was cotton-white.

“Is that so, Constans?” Malachi’s stern tones were a poor match for his smile. “Shouldn’t your majesty be at his lessons?”

Constans brushed aside a mucky fringe and frowned in earnest thought. Then he did what Rosa had observed all children – and no few adults – did when confronted with an unwelcome question. Namely, he ignored it.

“Hello, Rosa.”

“That’s not how we greet guests in this house, is it?”

Constans frowned. “That’s her name.”

“And one you’ve not earned the right to use,” his father replied. “Now, greet her properly.”

The frown cleared. Constans offered a stiff, unsteady bow. “Hello, Lady Orova.”

Not daring to meet Malachi’s eye lest she be tempted to smile, Rosa returned the bow. “Thank you, majesty.”

“Would you like to be my queen? You look like you’d belong in Fellhallow.”

Malachi’s smirk darkened. “Constans!”

“He’s not saying anything his father didn’t.” Rosa squatted to reach Constans’ eye level. “I’m flattered, majesty. But Fellhallow is a long way off, and I’m too tired to travel.”

“He doesn’t mean the real Fellhallow,” proclaimed a new voice. “He’s been playing by the river again. Hiding from Ada. She’s probably still looking for him.”

Sidara stood on the stairs, two steps down from the top. Her belted white dress was every bit as clean as Constans’ smock was not. Strawblonde plaits hung to the small of her back.

“Hello, Lady Orova. Hello, Father. Mother’s angry with you again.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Malachi replied. “And if I recall, you have lessons of your own.”

“I came to greet your guest.”