“But she’s my little girl,” the baroness said. “You can’t . . .”

Looking at the woman’s watery eyes, Winter almost softened. Fortunately, her husband cut in.

“It’s one thing when a bunch of peasants get themselves killed,” he said. “It’s quite another thing for a daughter of a noble family to put herself in danger.”

Winter set her jaw. “My lord, I have served both alongside and against the sons of noble families, and let me assure you that they die just like anybody else. The same goes for their daughters.” She raised her eyes. “Lieutenant, did you find the ranker?”

Cyte was now alone in the doorway. “Yes, sir. She indicated she didn’t wish to speak to the visitors.”

“She’ll speak to me, by God, or else—”

Winter cut the baron off. “Then we have nothing further to discuss. Please escort our guests out.”

Di Wallach whirled to face Cyte. “You have some cheek, telling me I can’t speak to my own daughter. I will not leave this room until . . .”

He trailed off. In the antechamber, six big rankers from the Royals were standing at attention, muskets on their shoulders. Cyte stood in front of them, her expression neutral.

“Baron? Baroness? If you’ll come with me?”

Baron di Wallach hesitated, caught between his pride and his desire not to suffer the insult of being physically dragged from the room. Finally, he straightened up, smoothed his coat, and marched out as haughtily as he could manage. His wife followed him, sniffling, only after throwing Winter a last pleading glance. Their “escort” fell in around them and filed out the door.

Cyte was grinning again. “Also nicely done, sir.”

“Would you tell Ranker di Wallach I would like to speak to her, please?”

Cyte nodded and returned a moment later with Anne-Marie, who must have been waiting just out of sight. A few days had wrought quite a lot of change in the girl. Her hair had been inexpertly cut short, all those waves of blond curls traded for a flyaway mess, and her dress and court shoes had been swapped for good leather boots and the blue trousers and jacket of the Vordanai army. The uniforms Winter had requisitioned for the Girls’ Own had arrived only the day before, and as she’d predicted they’d done wonders for morale.

Anne-Marie’s pale skin was red from the sun, and her hands were cracked and blistered. Abby and her sergeants had been working her hard, along with all the other new recruits, but somewhat to Winter’s surprise the girl had borne everything they’d thrown at her. Her friends, more daughters of the elite of Deslandai society, had done likewise, as had the several dozen recruits of more humble origins. As Winter had predicted, word had gotten around.

“Sir!” Anne-Marie said, with an excellent salute.

“You didn’t want to speak to your parents?”