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scratched with hard use, held a soft sheen that only came from industrious scrubbing.
    Martise’s admiration for the mute servant grew by leaps and bounds in her weeks at Neith.  Even Bendewin, Asher’s cook, had to be reminded to polish her preparation table on a constant basis.  No one liked splinters in their food.  Unlike most of the manor, not a speck of dust grayed the surfaces, and the entire room was redolent with the rich scent of porridge simmering in an iron cauldron suspended over a low hearth fire.  Her mouth watered.
    “A fair morning, Gurn,” she said in greeting.  “Breakfast smells wonderful.”
    He gave her a pleased smile from where he bent over the pot, stirring their porridge.  The smile turned to a disgusted frown when Cael padded past him and flopped down in his customary place under the table.
    She didn’t wait for Gurn’s direction but made her way to the cold cellar in one corner.  Recessed into the kitchen floor and accessible by a hatch, the deep space was filled with jars of preserved food, slabs of salted bacon and ham, a bowl of eggs and crocks of butter, cream and milk.  She gathered butter and milk and ascended the cellar steps, grateful they, at least, were sturdy.
    Gurn had placed two bowls of the steaming porridge on the table by the time she set the crocks down.  Martise was relieved not to see a third bowl.  It was inevitable she’d deal with Silhara, and often.  However, she preferred to delay as long as possible, and she didn’t relish the thought of those penetrating black eyes watching her as she ate her breakfast.
    This morning her luck ran out.  No sooner had Gurn set the bowl of oranges and a pot of tea out for their meal, than the door opened, admitting the Master of Crows.  Surprised by his sudden appearance, Martise gaped at him with her spoon halfway to her mouth.  Rumpled and scowling, he didn’t spare her a glance but shuffled to the table where he collapsed on the bench across from her.  He folded his arms and rested his forehead on his hands with a groan.
    The proud, stately mage she’d met days earlier was transformed into a man who might have spent the night prowling waterside dives.  He didn’t reek of spirits.  In fact, his scent teased her nostrils—citrus and tobacco smoke.  The long black hair, neatly queued when he first greeted her and Cumbria, spread over his shoulders and across the table in a tangled shroud.  He looked like he’d slept in his clothes.  The simple breeches and white shirt were one massive wrinkle, and his feet were bare.
    She glanced at Gurn.  Unfazed by Silhara’s unexpected and disheveled appearance, he put another cup and an additional pot of tea in front of Silhara and took a seat next to him. Was this the regular morning ritual? One briefly interrupted when she arrived?
    She went back to eating and tried not to laugh, imagining the High Bishop here instead of her, and how affronted he’d be.  She suspected the outcast mage would make no special allowances for the cleric.  He’d be served the same porridge as everyone else in the kitchen with the manor’s master and his servant.
    “Why are you smiling?”
    Silhara’s question startled her, and she nearly choked on a sip of tea.  She snatched the napkin Gurn handed her to cover her mouth and stifle her coughing.  The mage’s dark eyes were slitted against the kitchen’s bright, morning light.  Hints of a beard shadowed his cheeks, emphasizing a strong jaw.
    She cleared her throat.  “I was thinking of the High Bishop, Master.  Nothing of consequence.  My apologies.”
    A black eyebrow rose, and her gaze fell to his mouth, bewitched as his lips curved in a faint smile.  Such a hard face.  Such a beautiful mouth.  A telltale heat made her ears burn, and she dropped her gaze.
    “I imagine Cumbria would take exception to that remark.  He has always believed himself to be of great consequence.”
    She couldn’t resist the temptation to look