“You seem a bit grand for ‘Xander’ now. We’re not children anymore.” She handed him his spare sword and retrieved her cane from beside the fountain. She grinned as a memory returned to her, unbidden. “Do you remember how you used to dress? Your mother would have a fit every time you came home, covered in mud and leaves and scratches. She said you were too old to be getting into scrapes like that. And now?” She looked him up and down, leaning closer. “You’re a proper lord. You’re handsome and you dress in silks, and there’s scented oil in your hair, isn’t there?” She smiled as his cheeks reddened. “You have two hundred and fifty men under your command, you’re responsible and brave and authoritative. Your mother would have been proud. Hardly the ragamuffin I knew back when.”

He cleared his throat. “Two hundred and fifty men? Who’s counting?” His tone was light. “Have you really missed me, Constance, or are you just after my sword power?”

She laughed, though it was only half a joke. “Winton told me.”

An unreadable expression—discomfort, perhaps—passed over Xander’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Constance asked. “Did something happen between you and Winton?”

He shook his head. “My … my fighting style wasn’t quite right for him. He’s built for a longsword. Captain Trudan was the perfect mentor.” He avoided Constance’s eyes, and—for the moment—she chose to let it pass.

“Now, Xander, was this rendezvous just an opportunity to humiliate me in the practice ring, or did you have something to tell me?”

He glanced at her with mingled relief and sadness. He sheathed his swords and sat on the fountain’s edge, sighed, and rubbed his temples. “Where do I begin?”

She carefully sat beside him, the damp stone cold against her thighs, even through layers of silk. “My father … how long has he been like this?”