“Relax,” she said. “It’s a mask. Here.” Slowly, she undid the leather fastenings and exposed her face, her skin tingling as it met the damp, cool air. In an instant, she felt her power weaken further. She tried to disguise the growing tremor in her hand, gripping the mask tightly as the shaking passed, then slipping it into the special concealed pocket in her cloak. She focused on the wide courtyard beyond the gate. The cloud was thin enough up here not to be an immediate danger to her eyes, thin enough even to see some of the buildings around the courtyard she’d raced across as a child, spinning her hoop. She felt an unexpected stab of sadness and guilt. Now a washerwoman was hurrying into a narrow doorway with a basket of laundry, casting a curious glance over her shoulder at the commotion.

The third fur-cloaked figure stepped closer, right up to the iron gate, his face framed by the bars. She recognized him instantly: his black curly hair the picture of his mother’s; his alabaster skin, now shadowed by the beginnings of a beard; his tired eyes a warm dark brown.

She shook her head in disbelief. He’d been a gangly boy of nine when she’d left, but he’d grown into a handsome young man.

“Winton,” she said softly.

At first, he gazed at her, uncomprehending. But as he studied her face, she watched shock and suspicion pass over his features, replaced by a kind of delight. “Is it really you, Constance?”

She smiled. “It’s really me. I’m home.”

As Winton shouted an order to open the portcullis, Constance realized her arrival had begun to draw a crowd: a few servants gathered nearby, a black-liveried valet loitered in a doorway, a lady leaned from her upstairs chambers in curiosity. The big iron wheel creaked and popped as it drew the gate up into the walls—others arrived, drawn by the sound. Visitors were clearly an uncommon occurrence at the castle. Constance had never seen the courtyard so busy with people and yet so still: everyone was watching, waiting.

Once the gate was raised, she stepped into the courtyard. Winton stood in front of her, gazing at her face, his eyes shining. “For Ancestors’ sake, what happened to you?” he cried. “I thought you were dead!” And without waiting for her reply, he enveloped her in a tight embrace—so quickly she barely had time to tuck her left arm behind her back, out of the way. He was a half inch shorter than her, but as she circled her right arm around his shoulders, she felt how broad and strong he had grown.