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suppers. Lady Maisie’s ship is moored downriver. You should reach it by nightfall.”
    â€œShip, you say? What a shame. I’d hoped we’d be traveling by unicorn.” Adrian paused with his hand on the latch and spoke over his shoulder. “Don’t bother with seeing me off. I’ve little use for sentimental farewells when I’m being exiled.”
    Then he swung the door open and escaped into the black vortex of the stairwell.
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    Maisie Lindsey paced back and forth between two tall, winged angels in the courtyard of the abbey, her boots crunching on the gravel, made louder by the snow packed between the stones. The hood of her black cape was drawn up, doing much to shield her ears and the sides of her face from the biting wind swirling up off the Danube, and yet each time she spun on her heel to change directions, she caught sight of the stone eyes of the statues, staring at her reproachfully.
    â€œStop it,” she muttered up at the one currently before her as she turned her back.
    Crunch, crunch, crunch. The layers of her rose- and cream-colored skirts flaring out in front of her with each step.
    What was taking him so long? She prepared to turn again, and saw the disappointed moue of yet another angel.
    â€œStop,” she gritted out through her teeth. “I doona have any choice, do I?”
    The hollowed stone pupils twitched forward with a little sandy whisper to regard the winter-stilled courtyard once more.
    Maisie heaved a great sigh and turned to continue her pacing.
    Then she saw the lone figure emerging from between the columned archways, his telltale monk’s robes kicking up above the gravel path. He walked with a limp.
    â€œOh, good,” she mumbled. “He’s crippled.” She noticed the man regarded her openly as he approached. Stared at her, actually, and his impertinence caused her to bristle.
    She glanced up at the statue next to her and then glared at it until even the great angel had to avert his gaze.
    The monk reached her at last, his hooded brown eyes appraising her suspiciously. He could have at least shaved. Maisie mustered a thin smile and tried to enunciate her words clearly. “Good day. Do you speak any English?”
    One of the monk’s eyebrows rose. “I do. Would you care for me to teach it to you?”
    Maisie frowned; his accent was clearly of the far southern island. “I thought you were Norse.”
    â€œDo I look Norse?”
    Now it was Maisie’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Nay. Actually you look a bit of a weasel, so I couldna be certain. You’re quite rude for having just met a lady.”
    â€œForgive me; I assumed the qualifier of your title ‘in-waiting’ absolved me of the burden of chivalry until a later time. And you did just refer to me as a weasel.”
    â€œI didna. I only said you had the look of a weasel. Whether you actually are one or nae remains to be seen.”
    â€œWhat exactly is that supposed to mean?”
    She cocked her head and the wind chose that moment to reach inside her hood and pull forth a ringlet of her red curls. “Are you certain you speak English?”
    He gave her a ghost of a smile, then. “Adrian Hailsworth.”
    â€œLady Maisie Lindsey.”
    â€œQuite a musical name. Where are the horses, Maisie Lindsey?”
    â€œ Lady Maisie,” she corrected. “They are in their stables, I assume.”
    Adrian Hailsworth began limping toward the wide gates of the abbey, and so she had no choice but to follow.
    â€œThe stable closer to the river, or in the east of the village?”
    â€œThe stables wherever one who keeps horses should live, I suppose,” she clarified as they passed through the wrought-iron posterns.
    The monk halted, turned to look at her. “You walked here?”
    â€œI would have flown, but my arms were weary from such a long swim,” she quipped.
    Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “How far? In