They headed for her own chamber. There was so little time left. If Fulk followed the Lord Commander — if Hunold’s body servant chanced into that room — or if for some reason her father should seek her out—! She must be out of Verlaine before dawn, witch or no witch! And setting her mind firm upon that, she towed the stranger along the dark ways.

Only, when she stood once more in the light, Loyse could not be as callous as her sense of urgency dictated. She found soft cloth to wash and bind the raw grooves cut in the other’s wrists. And from her stores of clothing offered a selection to the other.

At last the witch mastered her body to the point where she was able to cup her hands beneath her pointed chin. She allowed the jewel to fall from her lips into that hold. Manifestly she did not want Loyse to touch it, nor would the girl have done so for less than her freedom.

“This about my neck please.” For the first time the other spoke.

Loyse caught the jewel’s chain, pulled open the catch and fastened it again beneath the ragged ends of hair which must have been cut as hastily and as inexpertly as her own — and perhaps for the same reason.

“Thank you, lady of Verlaine. And now, if you please,” her voice was husky as if it rasped through a dry throat, “a drink of water.”

Loyse held the cup to the other’s mouth. “Thanks from you to me are hardly necessary,” she returned with what boldness she could muster. “It would appear that you carry with you a weapon as potent as any steel!”

Over the rim of the cup the witch’s eyes were smiling. Loyse, meeting that kindliness, lost some of her awe. But she was still young, awkward, unsure of herself, sensations she resented bitterly.

“It was a weapon I could not use until you distracted the attention of my would-be bedfellow, the noble Lord Commander. For it is one I dare not risk falling into other hands, even to save my own life. Enough of that—” She lifted her hands, examined the bandages about her wrists. Then she surveyed the disordered room, noting the shawl on the floor with its burden of sheared hair, the saddle bags on the coffer.

“It is not to your mind to travel to your bridegroom, my lady duchess?”

Perhaps it was the tone of her voice, perhaps it was her power compelling something within Loyse. But she answered directly with the truth.

“I am no duchess in Karsten, lady. Oh, they said the words over me this morning before Yvian’s lords, and afterwards they paid me homage on their knees.” She smiled faintly remembering what an ordeal that had been for Siric. “Yvian was none of my choosing. I welcome this wedding only to cover my escape.”