“The hens have only just started laying, my lord, and we used yesterday’s eggs in the bread.”

“That’s all right,” Dorrin said. “Ham will be enough, with the porridge. And if there’s someone who can wash my shirt—”

“The laundry maids heat their water after breakfast,” Farin said firmly. “If you’ll just leave your things in the passage—” Not in her clean and busy kitchen. “Now, my lord, meals for today?”

Dorrin let Farin guide her to the selections the cook really wanted—yes, that haunch of venison for dinner, with baked red-roots, stewed fruit in spices, a steamed pudding, and for midday, a pastry pie of minced meat and vegetables. She touched Farin lightly with her magery—but that commanding presence wasn’t a transferred Verrakai, just the cook’s own ability.

Breakfast that morning was the first meal Dorrin enjoyed since arriving. Porridge with honey dripped in it, fried ham, hot bread swiping up the fat from the fried ham. The sun rose into a clear sky, with ground mist along the stream; in the distance, the subtle colors of early spring created a picture of peace and beauty.

She made lists while eating, and after breakfast set about them. With a squad of Phelani, she went back into the old keep, searching from top to bottom with great care. It had been used for storage as well as holding prisoners: the family treasury, the armory, rolls of woolen cloth dyed Verrakai blue, jugs of blue dye, stacks of records. Dorrin had all this carried outside. Some levels were empty; they had once been occupied, some even recently—some beds with feather ticks and blankets still on the frames, chests and wardrobes still holding clothes, a leather purse with three copper coins.

“It’s like plundering,” Mekli said, staggering past her with a load of old books.

“And just as dangerous,” Dorrin reminded him. “I’ll be back later. When you get to the lower levels, call me first.”

The nursemaids had their charges up and dressed, ready for the outing Dorrin had promised if the day was fair. Dorrin looked them over, this time touching each with a flicker of magery. Her heart sank. There, and there, and there … three more children who were not children. Two boys and a girl, seven winters, six, and five.

She should have done it last night, while they were sleeping, but that would have been terrifying for the other children, and the nursemaids … now, in daylight, with all of them awake and alert, Dorrin realized it would be hardly less frightening. They would ask her about Restin; the ones who were not truly children, with adult cunning, would soon know he must have been discovered. She tried to think how best to proceed.

Suddenly one of the children—Mikeli, the sickly one—collapsed, falling to the floor with a strange mewing cry, his body jerking, foam at his mouth.

One of the maids ran to him, felt his face. “It’s the crisis!” she said. “He’s burning with fever. We must get him away from the others.” The others hurried over, warning the other children away; children cried out, all was bustle and confusion.