She turned to leave, but Gaborn could not quite let her go. In the Room of the Heart, he’d also learned that sometimes it is best to act on impulse, that the part of the mind which dreams will often speak to us, commanding us to act in ways that we do not understand. When Gaborn had told her that he thought she would do well in court, he had meant it. He wanted her in his court—not as his wife, not even as a mistress. But intuitively he felt her to be an ally. Had she not called him “milord”? She could as easily have called him “Your Lordship”. No, she felt a bond to him, too.

“Wait, milady,” Gaborn said. Once again Myrrima turned. She had caught his tone. With the word “milady,” he sought to make his claim on her. She knew what he expected: total devotion. Her life. As a Runelord, Gaborn had been raised to demand as much from his own vassals, yet he felt hesitant to ask as much from this foreign woman.

“Yes, milord?”

“At home,” Prince Orden said, “you have two ugly sisters to care for? And a witless brother?”

“You are perceptive, milord,” Myrrima said. “But the witless one is my mother, not a brother.” Lines of pain showed in her face. It was a terrible burden she held. A terrible price for magic. It was hard enough to take an endowment of brawn or wit or glamour from another, to assume the financial responsibilities for that person. But it became more painful still when that person was a beloved friend or relative. Myrrima’s family must have lived in horrible poverty, hopeless poverty, in order for them to have felt compelled to try such a thing—to gift one woman with the beauty of three, the cleverness of two, and then seek to marry her to some rich man who could save them all from despair.

“However did you get the money for the forcibles?” Gaborn asked. The magical irons that could drain the attributes of one person and endow them on another were tremendously expensive.

“My mother had a small inheritance—and we labored, the four of us,” Myrrima said. He heard tightness in her voice. Perhaps once, a week or two ago, when she’d newly become beautiful, she’d have sobbed when speaking of this.

“You sold flowers as a child?” Gaborn asked.

Myrrima smiled. “The meadow behind our house provided little else to sustain us.”

Gaborn reached to his money pouch, pulled out a gold coin. One side showed the head of King Sylvarresta; the other showed the Seven Standing Stones of the Dunnwood, which legend said held up the earth. He was unfamiliar with the local currency, but knew the coin was large enough to take care of her small family for a few months. He took her hand, slipping it into her palm.