Tilly took a moment in answering. “People are cruel, Mistress. Especially to one not born noble. As the beautiful wife of the First Wizard, you are widely respected, despite being so much younger than him.” Tilly touched her own short hair, then gestured at Magda. “Your long hair is a mark of your standing. You have used your position of power to speak before the council for those in the Midlands who have no voice. You alone give them voice. You are widely known and respected for that, not just because you were the wife of the First Wizard.

“But with Master Baraccus gone you have no one to protect you, to give you standing before the council or anywhere else for that matter. You may find that the world is an unfriendly place to a widow of a powerful man who herself is not gifted and was not born noble.”

Magda had already considered all of that, but it was not going to be a problem she would live to face.

“Perhaps the spiritist could bring you valuable advice from beyond the grave. Perhaps your departed husband could at least explain his reasons and ease your pain as well.”

Magda nodded. “Thank you, Tilly. I will think on it.”

Her gaze again sank to the silver box of memories. She couldn’t imagine why Baraccus had done what he had done, or that he would be able to explain it from beyond the grave. If he had wanted to explain his reasons, he’d had ample opportunities to do so. He would have at least left a letter waiting for her upon her return.

She knew, too, that there was nothing Baraccus could do from beyond the grave to protect her standing. But that didn’t really matter.

A faint glow of candlelight fell across the floor as Tilly opened the door on the far side of the room.

“Mistress.”

Magda looked back over her shoulder to see Tilly standing at the open door, lever in hand.

Men, their faces in shadow, their hands clasped, stood out in the hallway.

“There are . . . visitors come to see you, Mistress.”

Magda turned back to the table and carefully closed the silver box of treasured memories. “Please let them in, Tilly.”

Magda had known that sooner or later they would come. It appeared that it was to be sooner rather than later. She had planned to be finished with it all before they had a chance to show up. That, too, it seemed, was not to be.

Her spirits would have sunk lower, but they could go no lower. What did it matter anymore? What did any of it matter? It would soon enough be ended.

“Would you like me to stay, Mistress?”

Magda touched her fingers to the long, thick, freshly brushed hair lying over the front of her shoulder.

She had to be strong. Baraccus would want her to be strong.