Footsteps approached, and Constance spun around. Gradually, details gathered upon the form, as if an invisible painter were bringing it slowly into existence—but she knew him from the first brushstrokes. A hulking wolf-skin cloak, the hilt of a longsword peeking from his back. He was dressed in his training clothes, and a faint hint of sweat lingered on his skin. He was wearing shield-eyes in soft black leather and silver, and a thick scarf was pulled over the bottom half of his face.

“Winton,” she said, injecting some warmth into her voice. “Good morning. You’ve been training?”

“I try to train every morning,” he said, smiling faintly.

She glanced again at the longsword. “I’m curious. Why do you train with the guardsmen? Why not with Lord Irvine?”

“Oh … I’m no good at that kind of swordplay,” Winton said, but the lightness in his voice sounded forced.

“It would be more befitting the son of a Duke,” she suggested gently. “The longsword is a common soldier’s weapon.”

He ignored the observation, lowering his eyes. After a few moments, he began again. “May I speak with you?” His voice was tired, tight with worry.

“You are speaking with me. Are you all right?”

“Fine,” said Winton firmly, rubbing his temples. “I’m sorry about my strange behavior at the feast. I just…” He shook his head.

“Brother, it is not yet a month since your mother’s death. You are grieving, and some strangeness is to be expected,” she said. She reached out with her right hand, squeezed his shoulder. And suddenly he enveloped her in a hug, warm and strong. Constance pressed her left arm close into her body, forcing the rest of her to remain relaxed.

“We haven’t really had a chance to talk yet,” Winton said, his voice muffled by her fur collar. “I’ve missed you so much.” He pulled away, his eyes catching on the badge of office pinned to her cloak.

“I received it this morning.” She stroked the golden shield-and-sword brooch positioned proudly on her chest—the sigil of the Protectorship. “Some poor bastard was given the task of retrieving it from the Justice.”

“And he didn’t put up a fight?” Winton frowned.

Constance straightened her mask, her skin slightly clammy beneath the warm metal. “No. What can he do? The city guard must obey the choice of the Wise Men, and I am their Lady Protector now, with the Swordmaster on my side. Even with his personal retinue, the Justice is outnumbered. Perhaps he’s chosen not to fight me for fear of losing.” Or perhaps he has some other trick up his sleeve. She fidgeted, feeling restless. “Come—walk with me. I came up here for some exercise.”