Marina’s ladies were also with them, of course. Food came quickly. Silvy had a sip of wine, then put her cup down. She was very tense, kept squeezing and opening her hands, a lifelong habit. She looked at the others. They were an unwashed, road-weary party in this reception chamber.

Marina seemed to read her expression. “I don’t mind him seeing us travel-stained. This isn’t a social call. Villar won’t be here now, I suspect, from what Gauvard said, but we need to know where he went, and in what circumstances.”

There was time to ask now, Silvy thought. “Who is he? This man.”

Marina di Seressa smiled thinly. “De Thunier? He’s nothing. His grandfather was a military leader who fought for Ferrieres with honour and died in this long war. I forget where, or I never knew. The family was elevated by that to rank, given this house and the lands around it. It made them decently well off. Then this one’s father was an adviser to the king’s father. He’d have hunted with him around here. Bascot I have met twice. He imagines himself to be like the Duke de Barille—a figure of taste and discernment. But he has little of either, really, and he is not clever, or a poet.”

“You don’t like him?”

Marina looked at her a moment before answering. “Now I don’t. Before this, I had scarcely given him a thought in my life, other than to suggest Thierry might stop here when he left Orane.”

“What? You suggested it?”

Marina winced. “He needed to go somewhere,” she said defensively. “I told him to flatter.”

“Did you? I see! Not his strength,” Silvy said. “He’s a tavern poet, not a courtier, remember?” There were other things she thought of saying, but didn’t. Anger in her again now, possibly unfair. She reclaimed her wine, took another small sip.

De Thunier came home in the early afternoon. He made them wait while he changed. A small, fair-haired, fair-skinned man with an impeccably groomed beard entered, dressed in green velvet. Two armed men came with him, also in velvet, a paler shade of green. He was vain, Silvy decided.

“My lady di Seressa! I am honoured beyond words to have such a distinguished writer in my home! I hope you will stay as my guest for some time!”

Marina let a pause register. Then said, “The last poet who stayed as your guest appears to have been sent from here into mortal danger. I will not stay, no. You will answer some questions, however, my lord. And quickly.”

Bascot de Thunier blinked. And flushed. The fair skin showed it vividly.

Marina took three steps forward and slapped him, hard, on the cheek.