“What’s wrong?” Winter said. “Did de Ferre get warning? Is there fighting?”

“What?” Abby blinked. “Oh no. Nothing like that. The Patriot Guards practically fell over themselves to surrender. I think someone’s been telling tall tales about the Girls’ Own, because they looked like they expected us to rip their throats out with our teeth. De Ferre swears a lot, but Graff stuck a sock in his mouth and that shut him up.” She swallowed. “No, it’s Jane.”

“Oh, saints and martyrs,” Winter said. “Where is she? I’ll talk to her.”

“She’s gone,” Abby said. “Along with a dozen of the Leatherbacks, and as many horses. In the confusion, nobody thought to stop her.”

“Gone?” Winter shook her head, as though trying to make the statement fit better. “Where would she go?”

“Away from the army,” Abby said.

Away from Janus, Winter thought. Away from me.

Part Four

The Gray Rose

THE GRAY ROSE

The grounds of Clover-by-Ost stretched from the house itself—a four-story, multiturreted thing—down toward the river, widening as they went to encompass a considerable stretch of bank. There were rolling, gently sloped meadows, cobbled lanes that snaked back and forth to take in the most breathtaking views, and little clumps of carefully tended trees surrounded by artfully deployed “wild” flowers. Most of the plants were brown and dead now, of course, and the picnic umbrellas had been stored for the season, but it was still warm enough to make for a pleasant evening walk when it wasn’t raining.

Sothe didn’t walk because it was pleasant, obviously, any more than she neglected her duty when it was raining. She had men posted at strategic points all along the vast, sloping estate, covering all the major approaches and a few more imaginative possibilities. They were supposed to stay awake and alert throughout their shift, and Sothe liked to encourage this by visiting them unexpectedly. This had the added bonus of letting her practice her stealth, which had grown dangerously lax in Raesinia’s service. She considered it a personal failure whenever one of the guards failed to jump in surprise at her discreet cough.

Soft, she said, working her way along a fold in the ground that covered her from the (hopefully) watchful eyes at the next guard post. I’m getting soft.

And old, of course. This was a young woman’s game, and Sothe could smell age stalking her like an invisible, infinitely patient predator. She could still sneak up on a stray cat, or hang from her fingertips, but she wasn’t as fast as she’d been at eighteen. Some of that was natural—no one could stay at their peak forever—but Sothe was convinced that some of it was the result of getting too comfortable.