I did not have to bathe. I could run, stumbling down the castle halls until something caught me. I could wait here, fully dressed and dry, until she came back. Or I could sink below the surface of the water and breathe it in, ending this nightmare.

It was the last thought that made up my mind. I did not want to die here, but I stood a much better chance of convincing someone to help me if I looked presentable. I shucked off my new clothes and folded them carefully within reach, then bathed myself with a vengeance. I was dry, combed, and clean by the time she returned, hurried along by the thought of her eyes on my bare skin. She did not register any emotion at my improved appearance.

“Are you hungry?”

I wanted to go back to my room, where I could pretend to be brave.

“Yes,” I said instead.

We went back up the stairs, coming again to the kitchen. “You don’t eat in the hall?” I asked, remembering the tables shoved against the walls and the empty dais.

“I don’t hold court. The kitchen is warmer.”

“Where . . .” I took a deep breath and blurted out the question I needed answered most. “Where do the servants eat?”

She turned, and I nearly walked right into her. This close I could count the shadows of her eyelashes on her cheeks.

“Servants?”

“I thought . . .”

“You will not find any servants here. You will have to see to your needs yourself, my lady.”

The mockery in her voice was unmistakable.

“That’s not what I meant,” I said, but then the meaning of her words sank in. If there were no servants, then who would help me?

“What did you mean?”

She was so close to me. I wanted to step back, but my body refused, rigid with terror.

“Is there anyone else here besides you?” I hated the desperation that leaked into my words.

Her eyes gleamed, as feral as her wolf.

“You’re here,” she said, and her smile cut deeper than the north wind.

Red berries on a dark limb.

The Huntress paused, the bear shifting beneath her.

Rowan.

She had never realized how many rowan trees grew in the mountains, or how bright the berries gleamed against the snow. They pricked the eyes like blood.

Fresh tracks beside the tree.

Deer. She could smell them, a faint musk that spoke of hunger and chewed bark. She moistened her lips, tasting the air.

Not far.

The branches of the rowan tree tangled in her hair as the bear lumbered forward. She tugged, and a few berries spilled into her lap.

They had served rowanberry jam with game. The sauce was bittersweet, a sharp tang against the honeyed roasts. Old laughter rang in her ears, and the remembered stench of sweating, breathing, feasting men and women overpowered the smell of deer.