ARABLE LEANED OVER THE edge of the ramparts, ignoring the wind that took her hair and slapped it against her face. She was at the southernmost bend of the lower bailey wall. Down below, the river Trent sparkled in the sun, pretending life was anything more than a slow compilation of disappointments. Out and away, specks of homesteads hugged the water as it slept away from the city, full of people who were living their lives. Arable could do the same. She had survived worse than this. She had forged forward as only barely a young woman, when the rest of her family was dead or exiled. Compared to that, this was nothing.

She was exhausted, she told herself. Nothing more. Though she had grown accustomed to wearing a handmaiden’s dress and countenance, she was iron within. William may have forgotten the quality of her character, but that loss was entirely his to bear.

A gasp from her left caused her to turn sharply. A wide ox of a man was reaching for her, his face panicked. She bleated—yes, like a sheep—as his hand found her waist and pulled her weight from the edge. She hadn’t even realized how far over she had been leaning, and her head swam as she regained her balance.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his arms forming a protective wall.

“I’m fine,” she said, then again, and someway found reason to give it a third go.

“I thought you, perhaps … meant yourself some harm.” He had the faded blue stitched doublet of the Sheriff’s Guard, but his face was only vaguely familiar. A bald head and a bulbous nose gave him a bubbly sort of attitude, though there were scars and scratches in his cheeks, and scabbing about his ears. “I’m Marshall Sutton,” he said, as softly as he could with gravel for a voice. “And you’re … you’re Arable de Burel?”

She stared at him, her every nerve flaring at the sound of her own surname. His familiarity boded poorly. She leaned away but hit the crag of wall behind her, causing the Guardsman to move again.

“Do you need anything?” he asked. “Water?”

“No, no,” she said, but should have said yes. To be rid of him.

“I am sorry to trouble you, but I think might be it was good I was here.”

“I’m fine,” she said flatly. She glanced about, but found they were quite alone on the walkway. Even the wind seemed intent to isolate them from the world.

“If you’re sure you’re alright.”

“I am.”

“Then, Miss Arable, I beg a word.” All of his attention was on her, and his eyes flicked at her every movement. “I would offer to come back at a more favorable time … but I’m out of options.”

“Is this your post, Guardsman?” she asked harshly, hiding her uncertainty. “Should I report your absence, or can you see yourself back?”