“And now you have done so. Please return to your lessons . . . Or must I tell your mother, and have her be as angry at you as she apparently is at me?”

Sidara pursed her lips, nodded and retreated upstairs.

“And you, young sir . . .” Malachi went on, interrupting Constans’ sudden peal of laughter. “. . . are to clean your face, apologise to Ada and return to your studies.”

“I’d rather be fighting Hadari.”

“So now you’re both the King of Fellhallow, and a knight in the Tressian army, is that it? Which chapterhouse?

“Fellnore . . .” He shot a glance at Rosa. “No, Essamere.”

“Well, knights of Essamere take orders, don’t they, Lady Orova?”

“Without fail, Lord Reveque.”

Malachi poked Constans in the chest. “And you are hereby ordered to clean yourself up, and do as you’re told.”

Constans scowled, but nodded. “All right.”

He offered Rosa an approximation of a salute and wandered off the way he’d come. She waited until she was sure he was out of earshot before letting go the laugh that had been building inside her.

Malachi shook his head. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Not at all,” Rosa replied. The encounter had lifted her spirits more than she’d dared believe possible. “It seems like for ever since I saw them last. How old are they now?”

“Eight and twelve. One year each for every fifty grey hairs they’ve given me.”

“Sidara’s nearly as tall as you already.”

“And thinks she’s twice as clever.” He scratched his head. “I’ve a horrible feeling she’s right, but you’re not to tell her.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Rosa, deadpan. “I’m a knight. I obey orders. Especially from councillors who save my miserable neck.” She turned to Braxov. “I’d better have that bath, before the water cools.”

“Certainly, my lady.”

She followed Braxov up two flights of stairs to a narrow door, left ajar. Wisps of hot, sweet-scented steam curled through the gap. She reached for the door as Braxov withdrew. At the half-landing, he stood aside long enough for Lilyana Reveque to pass.

“Lady Orova?”

Lilyana drew level on the landing, a wary look in her eye. There could be no doubt from which parent Sidara had inherited her height; her mother was a good head taller than Rosa. Taken alongside a willowy frame, Lilyana had an almost ethereal aspect. Had she worn her golden hair down, instead of tightly plaited, she’d have been twin to the serathi statues so popular among the wealthy.

“It’s Rosa, please. We’ve known each other long enough.”

Lilyana offered a small, embarrassed smile. “Of course. I see so little of Malachi’s friends, I’m never quite sure where I stand.”

Rosa wondered if she heard the ghost of criticism. “I hope I’ve not put you to any trouble.”