How long would it take before she didn’t look toward the clothes lines to see if the hawk was perched on one of the posts, keeping watch? Months? Years?

She wouldn’t think of him. Or she would pretend he had gone away. Back to Tir Alainn. Back to his home Clan. Had just gone away without saying good-bye. Which, in fact, was exactly what he might have done.

As she turned back toward the door, it opened. Sloane stepped aside to let her enter.

“Good morning, Lady Breanna,” Sloane said.

“Blessings of the day, Sloane. Is anyone up yet?”

“The Hunter, the Huntress, and Baron Liam rode out toward the village at first light. The Ladies Rhyann and Gwynith went with them, along with Lord Varden. Ladies Gwenn and Lyrra left for Squire Thurston’s house a few minutes ago. The Bard sent a messenger to let them know Lord Donovan was badly wounded but had survived the night and was healing well.”

“So Aiden and Donovan survived,” Breanna murmured. “That’s good.”

Sloane smiled. “And Lord Falco. He made it back to the squire’s house before the fog made travel imprudent.”

She was suddenly lightheaded, floating. A warm hand closed on her arm, grounding her.

“Lady Breanna?” Sloane said. “Are you well? Have you eaten yet?”

“I…don’t remember.”

“Why don’t you go sit in Lady Elinore’s morning room? I’ll have some tea and toast brought in for you.”

“Thank you, Sloane. That’s very kind of—”

A scream sliced through the house. A maid rushed through the servant’s door at the back of the hall. She tripped over her skirt and went sprawling across the floor, still scrabbling wildly to reach the front door.

Sloane hauled her up by one arm and said sternly, “What’s the matter with you, girl? There’s wounded in the house. Do you want to give everyone a fright?”

“There’s something in the kitchen,” the maid gasped. “Something terrible.”

Breanna moved toward the servant’s door. This was her brother’s home. These servants were her brother’s people. Since he wasn’t here to deal with this, she would. Somehow, she would find the strength to deal with this.

When she walked into the kitchen, she saw the cook and her helpers pressed against one side of the room, staring with terrified eyes at the black-haired woman bent over one end of the work table. Her black overdress and trousers were dirty and torn, and her breathing was as rough and ragged as her clothes.

“What do you want?” Breanna asked.

The woman spun around, snarling.

Not a woman, Breanna thought as her blood chilled. No longer a woman. Leathery skin. Sharp teeth. Talons at the ends of its fingers. But the dark eyes that stared at her…The woman was still in there, still aware, still fighting against what she was becoming.