Midwinter

She responded the only way a lady could, by making a joke and scolding him for bringing his work home with him. The first time he laughed with her, shaking his head and holding her tight. The second time he laughed at her, then asked her to be serious. He stopped laughing after that. With each mission he grew more distant, and for the six months leading up to his arrest, they hardly spoke at all. He came in late, if at all, and spent his suppers poring over charts and ship manifests and all sorts of dreary things. The Lady Anne was not accustomed to being ignored, and she let him know in no uncertain terms over a late dinner that had grown cold in his absence. Her mother had told her years before that men need to be whipped sometimes, like horses, and that afterward they would show respect, however fleeting. But mother's advice did not apply to Mauritane. He simply stopped coming home at night, sleeping instead on a cot in his palace office.

Then everything had gone wrong. He killed the other officer, the son of some powerful and well-connected lord. The crown had spared no time, nor any of the Lady Anne's dignity, in bringing Mauritane down. The trial had been long, sensational, and worst of all, public. She'd hidden from it all as much as she'd been able. She shuddered now to think of those days.

The postman appeared again and walked to the door of the Lady Anne's building, passing beneath the veranda. A few seconds later, she heard the bell ring downstairs. Like it did each time the postman rang, Anne's heart leapt into her throat. It was best not to hope, because hope only bred disappointment. This would be another of her husband's letters, and she would drop it in the fire like all the others. Perhaps she would tear this one up first. Yes, that would be the thing for it.

Maid entered, carrying the silver tray. Anne blinked and looked again. Could she be imagining things?

No, it was no illusion. Resting there on the silver tray was a bright blue party invitation, handmade paper folded in the shape of a swan, perfectly preserved by the postman, who'd no doubt been bribed heavily to keep these works of art intact. With trembling fingers she reached for the invitation and snatched it off the tray as though it might disappear if she were not quick enough.

She unfolded the swan gently, careful not to rip the paper or dislodge one of the bright ribbons affixed to its wings. The invitation fell neatly into a flat shape and, somehow, the unfolded paper was still swan shaped.

She read aloud. "The presence of the honorable Lady Anne is requested at the homecoming fete of a commander returned home from the far northeast. The gracious lady shall be serenaded by musicians and delighted by glamourists from parts east. The location shall be the city home of Commander Purane-Es, of Her Majesty's Royal Guard. The date shall be Third Stag. Dress and glamour shall be formal."

An answer to a prayer. She read it to herself three more times.

Who, though, was this Purane-Es? The name sounded familiar. Perhaps he was an old friend of her father's? Yes, that was it. The gala had been arranged as her reintroduction to Fae society, signaling her return to life at court and the end of her mourning and exile. It was everything she could have hoped for.

The Lady Anne held the invitation to her breast, caressing it beneath her fingers.

"Maid," she said, biting down a smile. "Have driver make ready my carriage. I'm going to need a new dress and a fresh glamour. And bring my stationery at once; I must write my reply!"

honeywell

After nearly another full day of riding, the River Ebe gave itself up to them and began to grow nearer. The road wound down a broad slope and terminated at an abandoned ferry landing, its icebound wooden struts overgrown with brown, dead weeds. Another half hour's ride would bring them there, giving them a few hours of daylight beyond.

Mauritane cautioned them about riding across the river. "These shoes are designed for footing on rock and snow, not ice. When we cross the river, ride no faster than a trot if you value your neck. I'll take the lead and let Streak find the safest path across the ice."

The others nodded, but none of them spoke. The tedious downhill ride had given them all the opportunity to consider the larger purpose of their errand and their possible fate upon its successful completion.

"Mauritane," said Honeywell, pulling alongside him. "I would never question your leadership, but you've always said that a soldier's best weapon is knowledge."

"Yes," said Mauritane. "I've said that." He looked askance at Honeywell, smiling. "What is it you want to know, Lieutenant?"

"Well," Honeywell began, searching carefully for his words, "in my Guard career, my judgments and opinions were rarely sought. I didn't mind it; I even appreciated it. I'm not a great decision maker. I always trusted you, and I always trusted the Crown. It never occurred to me to think otherwise."