Raisa wondered if this could be a dig at her father the tradesman, but if so, there was no evidence of it on the wizard’s face. Indeed, Bayar continued, “I’m hoping we can do some business in the coming weeks. I’ll send my factor around, shall I?”

“It would be my pleasure, Lord Bayar,” Averill murmured, inclining his head.

The familiar ballroom had been transformed from a cold marble-floored room into an elegant space lined with dimly lit, cozy retreats. Servants circulated with platters of food and drink, and the room was fronted with tiers of small dining tables enclosed with black and white screens and centered with candles and black and white lilies. Falcon banners in black and white lined the walls.

“This…this is beautiful,” Raisa exclaimed, enchanted. “I’ve never seen it like this.”

Queen Marianna surveyed the scene, biting her lip, no doubt comparing it to her own plans for Raisa’s name day.

Micah and Fiona stood at the far end of the room, greeting a procession of guests. As usual, they complemented each other. Micah wore a white coat that fit closely over his lean frame, black trousers, boots, and a rich black stole bearing the falcon crest. His black hair hung shining to his shoulders. Fiona wore a long black dress slit to her hip, black gloves, and a white stole of her own. Diamonds and platinum glittered around her slender throat and wrists.

Raisa couldn’t help comparing her own small frame to Fiona’s elegant height.

As they entered the room, the crier was announcing the arrival of other guests.

“Lady Amalie Heresford, Thanelee of Heresford, in Arden,” he intoned.

Lady Heresford was a plump girl of Raisa’s age with red hair, creamy skin, and a sprinkling of freckles, dressed in the covered-up southern style. With her flat black dress and black lace pinned into her hair, she might have been one of the professional mourners the wealthy sometimes hired for funerals.

She kept her head high, eyes straight ahead, like an old painting of Hanalea walking through the field of demons.

Raisa’s heart went out to her. She looked scared to death.

Following after her, unannounced, was a tall, bulky woman upholstered in black, and a tall man shrouded in priest’s robes. His face was twisted, as if he smelled something bad.

In the Fells, there was a saying, “Sour as a flatland priest.” Well, Raisa thought, that’s right on target.