His mother woke him gently before the midday bells. He smiled up at her, roused himself quickly. He had tasks and a place to be.

He allowed her to feed him first, kissed her at the door. Asked, before leaving, “What did you hear this morning? In sanctuary?”

“Nothing. You know I stay at the back.”

He made a face. “And you know you need not?”

She made the same wry face. “You too? I am happier at the back, you both know it. It feels my proper place.”

“I don’t think you’re right, and neither does Ambroise. And if he and I agree, can we be wrong?”

His mother laughed. He loved her laugh. “All the time,” Adelie said. “Go say hello. He’ll be very happy to see you.”

He nodded, kissed her again, went out and across the little street that separated their house from the sanctuary. Ambroise Villar opened to his knock and, after a surprised moment, hugged him fiercely. He was a tall, gaunt man, with a habit of stooping, as if leaning in to listen more closely to whomever he was with, give them his fullest attention. He had pale-blue eyes. Innocent eyes. He was fierce in his faith and in his love for a few people, Thierry and his mother foremost among them.

Thierry knew he didn’t deserve this degree of love. And he also knew it had saved his life when he’d been wounded by Jolis’s new lover, and had stabbed him back, in a rage. The problem had been that the new lover, Rasse de Barille, had been a cousin of the duke of that same name, and a tavern poet didn’t stab a relative (however distant) of the king’s uncle. Not without consequences. He would have appealed for a clerical trial, not civic, but he hadn’t had any great hope that would save him.

Instead, Ambroise Villar, respected cleric of a small sanctuary near the university, had gone to the Duke de Barille’s elegant mansion and been admitted. No one ever knew what was said there.

Rasse de Barille survived. Thierry Villar was ordered to leave Orane for six months, and to pray for Jad’s forgiveness. No further punishment. He had been wise enough not to ask what punishment de Barille received. Thierry bore a scar on his left side now. Could call it a trophy if you were that sort of man.

And Jolis? The fight only added to her lustre and allure. Two men knifing each other for love of her? Thrilling, really, in certain circles. A beautiful woman, sharp and cold, ice in her heart like another knife. A woman of the winter. He’d written those things in a poem when he’d returned to the city. Hadn’t named her, having learned a slight measure of caution, but everyone knew. Everyone knew.