He blinked again, shook his head firmly. “Not at all. In no way. To be honest, my lady, in the world in which I live, and for which I write and recite my verses, I don’t believe you could assist me at all.” He seemed to have regained his voice now. He had a good speaking voice, when not daunted.

“And if you wished to be known in…a different world?”

“It has never occurred to me, my lady. You have seen what I write.” He meant that, too.

She put a finger to her lips, looking thoughtful. “Jolis de Charette is cold, it is said.”

He hesitated. It remained difficult for him to speak of her, more than a year after. “She…calculates, my lady.”

“Women have often needed to do that, to survive.”

He knew her history. “My lady, of course. But she does it…for amusement. Playing with lives?”

“Ah. Not the same, then?”

“No,” he said. “Not really the same.” He didn’t add that she was very beautiful, Jolis.

A sound, from the hallway.

The door behind him opened. No knock. He saw her eyes widen briefly, then she smiled. Thierry turned.

The immensely powerful man standing just inside the room was not loved or admired as much as his father had been, though he had been named “the Bold” for his courage (some said recklessness) in battle years ago. He was not tall, was solidly built, very fit, black hair still, a soldier’s wide stance. A long, narrow face with a long, narrow nose, dark eyes under heavy brows. A watchful look. He was dressed entirely in black. He was undeniably striking, undeniably angry now, and perhaps afraid.

Had also, very possibly, ordered the murder of his cousin the Duke de Montereau, the king’s brother, the acting ruler of Ferrieres. Thierry did not feel prepared for this.

“I do not recall your arranging to receive guests in my home at a time such as this, my lady,” said Laurent de Barratin, staring at the woman coldly with those suspicious eyes. “The city is unsafe. I have no idea who this man is.”

He didn’t even look at Thierry. He was glaring at the woman in the burgundy gown and black shawl.

And she surprised Thierry again.

“Good afternoon, my lord duke,” she said, her voice calm, but almost as cold as his. “I was unaware I needed your permission to receive other poets in these rooms you have been kind enough to offer me. My apologies. Clearly I am not as welcome here as I believed myself to be. I shall relieve you of the duty of hosting me. The queen has asked for my presence. Indeed she asked for it a week ago, with a view to my writing something for her—just as you did, in fact. She has now requested I attend on her again, in light of current circumstances.”