She walked through the vestibule; there were no ushers or ladies-in-waiting or other such vermin around at present. This would be a family matter; she and Tiphaine counted more-or-less in that category. As she paused under the open pointed-arch doorway of the solar’s light-filled outer room she heard two voices singing; Conrad’s growling bass, and Valentinne’s light wavering soprano under the tinkling of a lute. Sandra recognized the music and words instantly: it was an old minstrel’s tune from the Society days before the Change, but seldom sung as wholeheartedly back then as she heard it now.

It’s The Old Duke, she thought. Well, I knew this was a forlorn hope.

She paused for an instant, looking through and seeing Conrad’s shaven dome beside Valentinne’s silver-streaked light brown:

“I laugh at those who call me old
Who think my age their best defense;
For often fall the young and bold
Who fail to laud experience.
My sword and I are much the same:
Our actions swift and sure . . .
Each scar I wear, each graying hair
The life I gave to her.”

Sandra felt a slight pang at the sight. There had been no one for her, not since Norman died . . . the politics were impossible . . . and they’d never had quite that sort of relationship anyway. The pair went on:

“Throughout my life I’ve led my men
Where Crown and Prince command
And always does my Lady tend
To children, hearth and land.
My wife and I are much the same:
Our actions swift and sure . . .
A husband fair, a home to share
The life I gave to her.”

They started a little as she came into the room. She inclined her head, then gestured Valentinne to continue playing. She did, and Sandra sang the next verse by herself, with a few modifications: she was a contralto, and her voice was larger than you’d expect from someone several inches below average height:

“To those who thought our lack of sons
Would end my Norman’s line
I laugh and toast my daughter
Who upon her throne shall shine.
My child and I are much the same:
Our actions swift and sure . . .
A privilege rare, a crown to bear
The life I gave to her.”

Conrad grinned at her, the hideous old white scars knotting on his face, and all three finished together:

“So every passing year preserves
Familiar rhythms and the new
And through it all I lead and serve
With joy—as I was born to do.
My land and I are much the same:
Our spirits swift and sure . . .
Each oath I swear, each shouldered care
The life I give to her.”

“It’s good to see you again, old friend,” she said to Conrad, taking both his hands for an instant.

“And you too, Tina,” she went on, exchanging a kiss on both cheeks.