Seregil grinned as he stood and stretched, belly taut in the early-morning light. “Me, too. I’m sure it can be arranged.”

They washed and dressed for riding, then went to see if Sedge was awake. He wasn’t; nor was Thero, who’d taken Micum’s place sometime in the night. The wizard sat slumped in the chair beside the bed. Red lines still showed on his bare neck, shins, and wrists from his battle with whatever it was that had possessed the guard.

They could hear Micum snoring through the thick wood door and left him to his rest. Downstairs, however, the household was already stirring.

They found Dorin in the library.

“Looking for this?” Seregil asked, holding up the journal. “You’d asked after papers,” the steward replied. “I was looking for it to give to you.”

“Have you read it?” asked Alec.

Dorin hesitated, then nodded. “When I was a boy. I knew better, my lords. I shouldn’t have done it. But I was curious.”

“No need to apologize,” Alec said. “But did you know about the ghost?”

“She is just a lost soul, my lord. She doesn’t hurt anyone. If she did, my father would have told me. And I’ve lived my whole life here. She’s been seen many times. Some of the old stories even claim she helps the people who live here.”

“Thank you, Dorin,” said Seregil.

“Very good, my lord. If you will give me a moment, I’ll see that breakfast is served.”

“No need,” Seregil replied. “I’ve a mind to eat in the kitchen today.”

Dorin looked as if Seregil had just told him he planned to dine on horse dung. “My lord, really, it will only take a moment.”

Seregil chuckled. “Don’t worry, Dorin, you’ll get used to our little eccentricities.”

The sweet aroma of baking oatcakes greeted them as Alec and Seregil entered the kitchen. Sabriel and Vhadä were at work at one of the tables. The boy was cutting up turnips and carrots; Sabriel was mixing something in a large bowl. Glancing up, she spied them by the door and gave them a surprised smile. “Good morning. Can I help you with something?”

“Just a bite to eat,” Seregil told her, pulling a stool from under the table and sitting down across from her.

“Here?” she asked as Alec sat down.

“If you don’t mind.” Alec felt a bit uncomfortable, as if they were unexpected guests in someone else’s home.

“Why, of course not, I’ve just never heard of such a thing! Boo—Vhadä, go and fetch the new bread from the oven. It should be done by now. And that hunk of bacon from the cold room. You’ll have some tea, won’t you?”

“Yes, please,” said Alec.

“I’ll just go and fetch a proper pot.”

Seregil pointed to a stout brown-glazed teapot on the mantelpiece. “Nothing wrong with that one.”

The woman gave him a puzzled look, then took it down, spooned tea leaves into it from a canister, lifted the steaming copper kettle from its hook over the fire, and filled the pot.