At those words, spoken so plainly, something raw and brittle snapped inside Eliana’s ribs. Tears rose and spilled over before she could do anything to stop them. She realized, blearily, that they had reached the manor house. There was a broad stone terrace, slick with rain and bordered with bright-green ferns. Someone was ushering her inside, where there was warmth, light, the distant smell of cooking food.

Someone had taken Remy from her. She reached blindly after him, but then strong, firm hands were guiding her into a quiet room—also warm, but softer, dimmer. She noticed Jessamyn in the room as well, and Catilla and Oraia, all being helped out of their wet clothes by a kind-faced, round-bellied woman with wild red curls.

“That’s Ester,” said Dani, gesturing at the redheaded woman. “She’s been my friend for so long I call her my sister. She has a daughter, off helping refugees in the Vespers, and another one on the way, God help her.”

“Ever the cheerful one, you are,” came Ester’s wry voice.

“There, now.” Dani’s voice gentled, perhaps noticing how Eliana had begun to shake. “It’s all right, love. Your brother’s with that beautiful young man, what’s his name?”

“Harkan?” Eliana suggested, wiping the rain and tears from her face. Her hands were black with mud.

“Yes, that’s the one. They’re fine and safe. You’re all safe now, at least for a while.”

Eliana nodded, following Dani’s instructions: “Step out of your boots, there’s a girl. Leave your clothes on the floor. It’s fine, someone will take care of them later. Wrap yourself in this blanket, there we are. You’ll have to bathe one at a time, I’m afraid. We’ve such a full house at the moment. Who wants to go first?”

“I’ll bathe last,” Eliana whispered, clutching the scratchy wool blanket around her body. If she managed to hold it in place, then perhaps she could hold herself together as well, and stifle her still-rising tears. “In the meantime, is there a place I might wait in private?”

Dani led her into a small sitting room of wood-paneled walls. A soft, red rug carpeted the floor, and a fire snapped in a tiny hearth. How marvelous that there was such warmth in this house. So many fires, and none of them were of her own making, or of the enemy.

“Now you sit yourself right here on this chair, love,” said Dani. “Rest your eyes, and I’ll come fetch you when it’s your turn in the tub.”

But when Dani tried to step away, Eliana clung to her hand, her cheeks burning with shame and her heart aching to be mothered.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but that was a terrible mistake, for Rozen’s face floated there, contorted with pain. Finish it.

“Please don’t leave,” she croaked, and then, when Dani crooned soft words of pity and sat down beside her, Eliana’s tightly held control shattered. Hoping the rain would muffle the sound of her grief, she turned into the woman’s open arms and wept.

• • •

Eliana bathed and allowed Dani to help comb the knots out of her hair before braiding it into a single, neat plait. Scrubbed clean, she hardy recognized herself. Dani led her downstairs, where she sat at one end of a long table half-full of people. Too tired to learn their names, Eliana ate in silence. Miraculously, no one bothered her. She devoured two heaping bowls of beef-and-vegetable stew and sopped up the remains with a hunk of warm, crusty bread.

By the time she finished, the room had emptied somewhat. Dani and a young man, whom Eliana assumed to be her son, sat talking quietly at one end of the table. And then, the food in her belly granting her some clarity at last, she realized that Simon sat near her, reclining in his chair, feet propped up on a bench. He held a sheaf of papers in his hands and was reading over them with an impressive frown on his face. As she watched him, another young man who looked very like Dani approached her chair, looking ready to ask her a question—but one cutting glare from Simon sent him scurrying away.

She now understood why no one had bothered her as she ate.

Smiling to herself, she moved closer to Simon. She was glad for his nearness, his silent watchfulness. She was glad for the fact that he had bathed, yes, but that his hair and unshaven cheeks still looked scruffy and unkempt. The urge to touch his face overwhelmed her.

She pressed her hands flat against her thighs. “What are you reading?”

He straightened the stack of papers and placed them on the table before her.

She spent a few minutes reading over them, and with each page, her heart sank a little farther in her chest.

“Astavar is now occupied by the Empire,” she said. It felt necessary to force herself to say the words aloud. “Kings Eri and Tavik are dead, and the Lady Ama as well. No word of Malik or Navi or Hob. An estimated three thousand Astavari dead in the invasion.”

She returned Simon’s papers to him. “I regret that second bowl of stew.”

“Astavar would have fallen eventually, regardless of whether you were there or not.” He folded the papers into a leather packet and tied the packet shut. “Don’t agonize over it, Eliana. There’s enough to agonize over without adding to the list.” Then he looked up at her, and she did not think she imagined the slight softness on his face. “Are you tired?”

She laughed. “Aren’t you?”

“Me? Never.” He rose, extending a hand to her. “Has Dani shown you to your room?”

She took his hand gingerly, a sudden swarm of nerves fluttering in her throat. “Not yet. I have my own room?”

“Don’t tell Jessamyn. She has to share with Catilla—who apparently is an awful snorer.”

They began walking upstairs, by way of a side staircase not nearly as grand as the sweeping one at the front of the house. It was narrow and tall, dimly lit by tiny gas lamps in brass sconces, and Eliana felt that she and Simon, together, did not quite fit in this small a space. She breathed shallowly, so aware of his body beside her own that she felt a lightning storm might spontaneously generate between them.

She closed her fists, directing what frayed energy she could gather at her castings: Stay silent, little monsters.

They reached the third floor, and Simon led her down a quiet hallway carpeted with a thick, tasseled rug. Oil paintings hanging along the walls depicted imperial scenes—various black-eyed generals in dress uniform; the Emperor’s crest floating in a field of stars; what Eliana assumed must be the siege of Festival, when Meridian had fallen and its rulers had been executed.

The trappings of a family loyal to the Empire.

“You’re sure we can trust them?” Eliana said quietly.

“The Prophet says we can,” Simon answered. “So I will trust them until I am told otherwise.”