He took a left turn, then another, and there it was. There were guards here, as well, on the street in the cold. Of course there were. Half a dozen. Tall men, all of them, hard-faced. There was a stone tower looming above high stone walls. Men up there, too, he saw, with crossbows.

He named himself to the man who stopped him. He asked to see the steward. This was, after discussion, permitted.

He had written a note for the woman. After being escorted through a spacious courtyard to an inner door, Villar was ordered to wait in a marble-floored entranceway, amid statues from ancient times and recent tapestries, while the black-clad, disdainful steward went within, carrying his letter.

The man came back after an interval, his manner now distinctly more courteous. He even nodded his head at Thierry. Closest he’d get to a bow? Villar was led up a wide staircase with recesses for sculpted busts, also very old.

The lady, he was told, was at home and would be pleased to see him.

Fortune’s wheel did what it did, regardless of your hopes, prayers, cleverest planning. Jad could help the virtuous, the clerics taught, but they also tended to admit it was never a certainty.

She was waiting in a good-sized sitting room, standing by a built-up fire, holding his note. She wore a day-gown of burgundy silk, with a black knitted cap and a black shawl for warmth. Also for mourning the duke? That was possible.

He bowed. He actually knew how to do that properly. Jolis had taught him.

Marina di Seressa waited until the steward took Villar’s borrowed coat, laid it down on a chest by the door, and went out.

She smiled, a small, ironic smile. She was older than him, perhaps by ten years? She gestured with the note, said, “The poet Thierry Villar most humbly beseeches the great honour of my presence? I’d not have expected such a tone from Orane’s most astringent tavern poet.”

Astringent. Thierry blinked. “I was brought up to be courteous. I fail, often. Not always, my lady. It seemed…proper.” He took a chance. “What should I have written? That I wished to see if your beauty was as great as repute had it, matching the renown of your writings?”

Her smile deepened, a wide mouth. She said, “Do not flatter. I resist it. I have never been beautiful, or called so by anyone sincere. My writings have found some favour, Jad be thanked. We might have starved otherwise, or lived only by way of charity.”

Unexpected, again, such directness. She was tall, quite thin, expressive features, large, lively brown eyes. She was more attractive than she was admitting, or claiming. Her dark-brown hair was pulled back and pinned beneath and behind the cap.