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thought of being indebted to Aodh Mac Con, or his men, for anything at all—even a wrap—was, well…infuriating.  
    “I think not,” was all she said.
    “A fire, then.”
    “There is no need.” Fuel must be kept for even greater need, which was always coming; he’d learn that soon enough.
    He regarded her morosely. “My lord will not be happy.”  
    “That I will not take your wrap?”
    “That you’ve been made cold.”
    “Why ever should he care about such a thing?”  
    He shrugged. “You’re under his protection now, my lady.”
    A terrifying thought, that. “And how would he know of our failed treaty over the furs?”
    He looked at her red-tipped nose.
    She touched it lightly. “Of course. And for this, he will have your head?”
    “He might,” he replied grimly.
    The terrifying thoughts continued to pile up, did they not? “So, he does this often, this collecting of heads?”  
    Surprise crossed his face, then was swept away, shuttered beneath a soldier’s mask. He rolled his shoulder slightly and definitely away from her, perhaps to distance himself from any more of her heresy. A gust of cold wind bore through the gaps in the stone around the window.  
    After a moment, he said quietly, “I’m sure he’ll call for you soon, my lady.”
    She nodded in agreement. “But how will that help?”  
    To that, he had no reply.  
    Steps sounded outside the room, and a muffled voice came in through the door. “Bran, my lad, open up. He wants her.”
    Pure, cold fear shot through Katarina. He wants me.        
    Her young guard swung the door open. One of Aodh’s older captains stood on the landing, clad in his disguising English armor, but the shaggy hair spilling down over his shoulders was entirely Irish. He looked foreign and terrifying, standing on her landing.
    His gaze flicked to her briefly. “Bring her down, Bran. To the lord’s chambers.”
    A disconcerting buzz started in Katarina’s head, the sort that accompanied faints and watery knees, or so she’d been told. It was ridiculous and unnecessary. Katarina’s knees were made of steel. One did what one did, and then dealt with the consequences. She’d taken her captor’s blade and used it against him, in front of his men, and in the end, he’d prevailed.  
    It was like tossing a rock into the air. Eventually, it was going to land.
    They circled the curving staircase, down into the shadows and glow of torches, her young guard in the lead, the stern-eyed captain behind, creaking with leather and clinking with steel.
    She kept her fingertips on the curving wall. Composure and control were all in the moment to come, and Katarina was a master of such arts. She’d spent years honing them against the whetstone of the Irish wilderness, restraining and controlling anything reckless and fast-moving inside her, anything that might make her misstep and lose everything.  
    One did not maintain an English castle beyond the Pale by being reckless. Impolitic. Emotional. Tempestuous.  
    All things of Katarina.  
    She knew very well she was not fitted to rule. How many times had she been reminded of this fact? No, she’d learned the way through, and it was not her way. So, she’d hammered herself anew. She was akin to steel now. Tempered, capable of great harm.  
    To this dismal end.
    It made one wonder why one hammered oneself at all. It made one reconsider…everything.
    Even now, anger pushed at her. Anger was dangerous. It made her do intemperate things, like steal blades from warriors.
    She pressed the anger down where it belonged, deep inside, with all the other dangerous things, like passion and hope.  
    And the madness downstairs? Naught but a misstep, a regrettable error in judgment, harkening back to the old ways. It must not be repeated.
    It would not be. She was calmer now, prepared, reasoned. Leashed.  
    It was for the best.
    All she had to do was see what punishment the Irishman thought fitting. The Irishman who had