The solar was quiet, quiet enough that the tick of a needle piercing cloth was loud. Yseult was curled up in the window seat, restlessly staring out the eastern window of the tower, across the Five Great Fields of the home manor, sunlight glinting on the almost glassy stems of the reaped wheat and the nearly motionless leaves of the Lombardy poplars in the rows separating the fields. The air was warm and drowsy, smelling of slow-flowing water in the moat beneath the pads and blossoms of the lilies, and of the warm stuccoed concrete of the castle walls themselves. It was much better than winter, when they soaked up the dank chill and released it again to keep you in the right mood for the Black Months.

She’d pulled her fair braid over her shoulder and was nibbling on the end. Huon was out east, serving at Pendleton as a page in the fighting train of Sir Chaka Jones, Baron of Mollala. Odard was even farther east, in Boise, Idaho, the guest of President pro-tem Lawrence Thurston, according to his last letter. Which was dated a long time ago, so he might be anywhere now.

Odard didn’t always have time for Huon and me, but he was nice when he did.

She sniffled quietly, and winced. Here it comes, she thought, wait for it . . . wait . . . five, four, three, two . . . Mary Liu reached for her scissors, silk sleeve rustling. A quiet snip and a quick snap.

“Ysi! Daydreaming again! What have you done so far?”

Yseult swung around and lifted the heavy weight of the altar cloth she had been embroidering before it slid to the gleaming wood floor. She brought it over to her mother, sitting between two south-facing windows. As she gave it over she snuck a quick look at the narrow face under the widow’s wimple. They were alike in some ways; her mother had fair hair too, though graying now, and blue eyes. But the bones of her face were much sharper, and Yseult hoped she would never have that look of settled discontent.

Her heart sank. Mama’s been on edge since the letters arrived from Boise.

Yseult watched nervously as her mother slid the embroidered cloth through her fingers. Mary’s moods had been unpredictable since Odard left; it paid to bet on the side of strictness, especially for her only daughter.

Yseult swallowed as Mary’s fingers stopped at the section she’d been working on so desultorily this morning and yesterday.

“This is as bad as your stitches when you were five! You need to pay attention, Yseult. You are fifteen. I was a married lady by the time I was sixteen! And much better with my needle. A King’s daughter had to set an example, back when we were in the Society.”

If you were a King’s daughter, why aren’t you a Princess?