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Netelchester. The little girl’s dimpled hands were clutched together in front of her, but her eyes wandered everywhere. Through her daughter’s dark hair Rose had wound hawthorn blossoms to mark the first month of spring. Rose’s own little protest against the dust-dry trimartyrs and their year round misery.
    â€˜Rose,’ Nyll said with due gravity, rising to his feet, ‘I am told your father is dying.’
    No matter how often she thought it, Rose could barely credit it. Æthlric of Ælmesse’s fate surely was not to die of a sickness in his bower, but on the battlefield with a gutful of iron. ‘They say he is sick, yes,’ she said.
    Nyll licked his lips, as though tasting the sorrow. Lord knew he tasted everything else. He had grown as fat as a pig and as overconfident as a kitchen rat. He had once been deferential, even kind. But he and Wengest were close; they feasted and drank together. Now, Rose suspected, he thought himself well above her. And yet, he wasn’t brave enough to tell her to unwind the hawthorn from her daughter’s hair. Her family was too powerful.
    â€˜We should pray for him.’
    Rose set her teeth. ‘If it is your will.’ She endured the prayer with good grace, taking particular delight in Rowan excavatingher nose while Nyll tried not to notice. Her knees grew sore. Wengest had already given up kneeling and sat back with his legs stretched out in front of him.
    Finally, the prayer was over. Wengest, still sour with her, gave Nyll a meaningful nod and strode off. Wengest was often sour with her, so it was of no moment. He would forget they’d exchanged heated words by bedtime, especially if he wanted to fumble against her body in the dark. Rose collected Rowan and attempted to exit. Rowan, deeply involved in picking candle wax drips from the floorboards, squealed indignantly. As Rose scooped her up, her little legs wriggled like fishes.
    â€˜Let her play a moment,’ Nyll said. ‘Wengest asked that I speak to you about something.’
    Rose set Rowan down, and the child immediately lay herself flat on the floor to cry a little more in protest.
    â€˜What is it?’ Rose asked over the din.
    Nyll folded his hands in front of him. ‘It’s about the problem of Wengest’s heir.’
    Rose’s heartbeat doubled. ‘The problem of ...?’
    â€˜Yes. You’ve not given him a son yet.’
    â€˜Oh.’ Now Rowan had started to beat an angry rhythm with her skull on the floor. Rose was distracted, caring little for what Nyll was saying. ‘Rowan, stop that, you’ll hurt yourself.’
    â€˜Your little girl is three. Many months have passed without your belly swelling again.’
    Rose bit her lip so she didn’t mention the way his belly had swelled.
    â€˜Are you seeking help from someone to avoid having a child?’ he continued. Rose was confused out of her ability to speak clearly by his accusation. ‘What? No.’ She pushed Rowan gently with her foot. ‘Get up.’
    â€˜Those of the common faith know how to prevent the quickening. It’s an evil in Maava’s eyes, though. Have you sinned?’
    In truth, Rose hadn’t spared many thoughts for her inability to fall pregnant these last three years. She had hoped for another baby and, yes, a boy. Wengest would be satisfied and he might thereafter leave her be. But Wengest couldn’t father children, that much was clear. He only thought he could, because it was beyond imagining for him that she had presented him with another man’s child. With his nephew’s child.
    â€˜Your silence speaks to me,’ Nyll said.
    â€˜And what does it say?’ she replied, too quickly for kindness.
    Nyll forced a smile. ‘It would be much better for everyone if you accepted you are a trimartyr queen, Rose. Not a heathen like your sisters. You oughtn’t wander off to the village witch every time you need