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sea."
    The widow. Isobel had been imagining a widow like Old Mother Crow, wizened and dry. Alice Bryony looked like no widow she had ever seen.
    Isobel raised her chin haughtily as she could manage. "You have no leave to ask my business, then."
    She turned to move away, her heart thready in her chest.
    Alice spoke, stopping her. "True enough, my lady. But a woman alone, so late, does well to heed the warnings of another."
    Cautiously, Isobel turned back.
    The widow stepped closer, pushed Isobel's hood from her head, plucked a loose leaf from her hair. Shivering, Isobel endured it, hoping her expression was cold. The woman trailed a hand over her cheek. "You are too young for such dangerous games, child. Soon or late, there will be one you cannot bewitch."
    "I play no game."
    The smile was oddly kind. "Ah, child, I saw you, dancing. There is passion in you, is there not? Something that drives you to wander, seeking to fill that empty ache."
    It was too close. Stung, Isobel was tricked into revealing the truth. "Nay," she whispered harshly. "'Tis only I wish what they have—to take at will the pleasures of the flesh. I should have been born male."
    "You only need a husband, girl. One who knows how to please you." She moved away, as if dismissing Isobel. "You'll see."
    Isobel opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it. She rushed after the woman. "You will not tell that you saw me?" She tugged a ruby ring from her finger and pressed it into the woman's hand. "I vow I will not wander again if you will not tell."
    Alice pressed the ring back into Isobel's hand. "Make no vow you cannot keep," she said, and moved away again. At the door, she turned and quietly said, "I will not betray you, Lady Isobel, but you will owe me one thing. Are we agreed?"
    Her speech was fine for a peasant, Isobel thought, but she grasped at the offering gladly. "You need but speak," she said.
    Alice nodded. Isobel turned and hurried back to her bed.
    The next morning, Lyssa was awake long before the village stirred. It was a great joy to awaken in her own bed, to the pools of sunlight spilling through the open shutters, and the scent of the woods filling her chamber. All was silent but for the annoyed lowing of cows yet to be milked, and the whistle of birds who'd not indulged themselves in the night's reverie. Lyssa lay still, simply taking it in—home!—before she rose to wash and dress.
    She made her way to the kitchen. By noon, there would be men in the yard and women in the kitchen, and the usual bustle of the castle putting things right again, but for now Lyssa made do with black bread and watered wine. Then, eagerly, she made her way to her solar, her dogs pattering behind her.
    Here was the heart of her life, of her very dreams. She flung open the door and took in a glad breath, seeing by the dust that the room had lain undis-turbed these many months. Needles of yellow light poked at the shutters. Lyssa flung them open to the breaking day, letting in vast puddles of sunshine.
    She brushed at spider trails collected on her loom. A half-completed tapestry waited there, a hunt scene in deepest greens and blues. She blew at the dust on it, and inclined her head, pleased that her memory had proved true. It was a beautiful piece.
    The room was lined with benches, and beneath them sat baskets of varying sizes. Some contained spun threads, most of wool, but some of flax and hemp, and some even of her dog's long fur that she'd spun in experiment. Others held raw material, ready to be carded. One held her precious silk thread, and she tugged it from its protected place and removed the cloth she used to cover it. Within, spools of the precious thread glowed in jeweled hues—emerald and ruby and sapphire. She fingered them and smiled.
    For this did she live—for the pleasurable rhythm of spinning and weaving, for the voices of her women, rising and falling in gossip and laughter and anger as they worked, for the warm sight of dogs sprawled in a