And then a fog did come—from the north on a new wind that rose late in the day. It hid the trees at the edge of the forest, and the forest itself, of course. Sounds were muffled. The château became an island in the world. In some world. The servants drew the curtains, lit fires.

Marina’s mother had returned by then. She made quick, capable arrangements for a dinner guest, and then did, of necessity, invite their visitor to stay the night. Her guest now. Thierry didn’t think she approved of the lady of Arceval, either. She didn’t approve of many people, he suspected, but there were conventions to be observed.

He did tell the children their story, inside by a fireplace, as it had turned chilly in the garden, and strange. He had no memory at all, after, of what tale he’d invented for them.

Later, they dined, three of them at the long table, with another fire lit and many candles and lamps. Their guest led the conversation, lightly, wittily, speaking both of neighbours and of events in the wider world. Even of the Maiden who had restored the health of the king, Jad be thanked and praised.

She asked Thierry questions about Chervaux, what had happened there, noting how remarkable it was that he had been present, that Marina had been, for such a dramatic moment. Their hostess retired shortly after the meal, as was her habit.

The steward had already made arrangements for their guest and her attendants. The attendants were offered beds downstairs among the household servants. Alaina d’Arceval had said she wouldn’t need them for the night, but would be grateful for a night robe to change into, upstairs.

Thierry excused himself and went off to the library, which was also Marina’s writing room. He’d been doing that most evenings. She had her books there, including copies of her own writing, bound in leather, on sumptuous paper. Seressa, she had told him earlier, was where such things were done best. She knew who to work with there. He had never lived anywhere with so many books.

He spent an interval in the room. He didn’t work. He couldn’t. His thoughts were scattered like birds startled from a tree. He was trying to understand what had happened to him. What was happening. He was no stranger to desire, or to women. How could he be, in the life he lived? This was…different. Was it her scent? The black eyes and hair? The sense of something wild in her? The way she’d bitten into an apricot in the garden? But hadn’t he been…ensorcelled even before that? Was that the word?

Was it of any importance to decide, at all?