Chapters (25)
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Dedication
- Acknowledgements
- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN
- CHAPTER ELEVEN
- CHAPTER TWELVE
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN
- CHAPTER FIFTEEN
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN
- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
- CHAPTER NINETEEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY
- ALSO BY S. M. STIRLING
She sighed, rubbing one hand over her eyes. Candles and two alcohol lanterns lit the room and she couldn’t tell what time it was, or for a moment where she really was. Her eyelids were a little crusted with sleep, but they didn’t burn as badly as they had when she’d collapsed into bed whenever-itwas before. She’d had a vicious migraine yesterday too, the usual one you got if you wore a helm all day with the inside padding tight around your head and were clouted a couple of times to boot, but by now it was down to a slight throb. She could still feel every overstretched tendon, bruise, wrench and minor abrasion and nick.
Long dismal experience told her that getting up and moving would warm the injured muscles and make her feel a little better. The rest needed willow extract and time; more time than it used to, at that. Her sword hand and wrist in particular felt as if someone had driven a laden wagon over them. Her page Lioncel de Stafford was standing by the bed, muffling the little bell he’d rung and looking disgustingly young—which he couldn’t help, at twelve—and fresh and blond and rested.
She sat up, running her fingers through her own tangle of pale hair and then spreading her hands out and looking at them:
God, did I go to bed without even washing? Yes, apparently I did, that’s dried blood under my nails. Delia is a saint. At least this nightshirt is clean, or was before someone put it on me.
“I’m awake, brat, you can put the bell away. Are your mother and father here? What time is it?”
“Yes, my lady. No, my lady. Six fifteen in the morning, my lady. A train arrived with a number of badly wounded men from Hermiston at four a.m. Dowager Molalla and the train master sent for help.”
Tiphaine frowned. Shit, what went wrong now? Did they take a slap at Hermiston? The way I had it set up we should have fed them their livers if they did and the Viscount knows his business.
She tossed the covers back. I usually wake up when Delia gets out of bed; I must have been really wiped this time, as well as getting older.