Imogen didn’t look up from pouring the hot water in the cup so the leaves might steep. “I hope it was worth waiting for your tea. This will take a few minutes to cool.”

“Don’t be such a shrew, girl. Come here and see what I have for you.”

When Imogen resumed her seat by the bed, Niamh handed her a finely stitched book made of supple leather and expensive parchment yellowed with age. A sheen of tears brightened her eyes, and Imogen’s heart jumped in her chest.

“What’s wrong?”

Niamh’s melancholy smile matched her teary gaze. She curled her fingers around Imogen’s gloved ones. “Nothing that time and a little reading can’t fix.” She released her daughter’s hand to stroke the book’s cover. “You are my child in every way save blood and birthright.”

Imogen’s heart continued to thump hard against her ribs. The sickness had changed Niamh physically, almost beyond recognition, but not her mind. Until now. Imogen didn’t know what to make of the suddenly maudlin creature clutching her hands despite the danger, and her grief grew a hundred fold. Time was growing very short for Niamh of Leids.

“When you were small, I told you all the stories of the Berberi kingdom. Do you remember?”

Imogen nodded. She’d been raised on tales of King Varn and his court, the great markets in the capital city, the library and theaters, the grand avenues on which the aristocracy strolled to see and be seen. It was another world, as far away and inaccessible as the moon. As a young child, Imogen had listened to Niamh’s recounting of such things with wide eyes and gone to bed dreaming of lavish courts and beautiful princesses courted by noble princes.

Those dreams had gone the way of other childhood fascinations as she grew to womanhood. Burdened as she was with a curse she’d carried since birth, she would never marry or be courted by either prince or nobleman. Not even a farmer or swineherd.

Like Imogen, Niamh had put aside those tales and concentrated on teaching the things that guaranteed survival—the knowledge of herbs, the brewing of draughts and elixirs, the harvesting of wild roots and berries, and the construction and placements of traps. Even those things came second to grueling lessons in languages, with letters learned by scratching in the dirt and reading the same six books Niamh owned until Imogen had memorized them from cover to cover.

Only twice had she seen this particular book. Once, when Imogen was twelve, she’d found Niamh scribbling madly in the pages and then again a year ago, when she first showed signs of illness. She hadn’t offered any explanation, and Imogen didn’t ask. Nothing could force her mother to reveal her secrets or motivations until she was ready, and the time had not come until now.

Niamh continued to stroke the book. “This was a gift. From King Varn.”

Imogen stared at the book with new eyes. When had Niamh consorted with a Berberi king?