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her neck. She bowed her head, staring at her now congealed porridge as if it carried all the secrets of the ancients.
    Outside, the screeching cries of crows punctuated the silence in the kitchen.  She sat stiffly, waiting for a stinging slap or the vision-blackening pain of a cuff to her head for her insolence.  What was wrong with her?
    Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.  Silhara was a dangerous unknown.  He might not touch her at all, just transform her into a fat, juicy worm for the crows nesting in his trees.  He did neither.  When she braved a glance, she found him eyeing her with a speculative gaze.
    “You have done an unwise thing, Martise of Asher,” he said softly.  “You’ve caught my interest.”
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER FIVE

     
    She was no more winsome in the morning than at day’s end.  Silhara’s new apprentice looked much as she had when he first met her, dressed in a tunic and skirts too large for her, her hair bound in a tight bun and coiffed with torn spider web.  When he stumbled into the kitchen, half-blinded by the morning light, he was startled to see her.  And then he remembered.  Conclave’s answer to his request for help.  He didn’t know whether to laugh or curse.  What in Bursin’s name was he supposed to do with a helper who couldn’t perform the simplest spell or lift a basket of oranges?
    He sipped his tea and regarded her over the rim of his cup.  Damned priests.  Couldn’t they have saddled him with someone pretty?  A woman with generous curves and breasts to smother in?  Someone he could tup in the hallway while she searched for secrets and schemed of ways to betray him?  Instead, they sent this ordinary, diffident, untalented girl.  At best, her presence was a nuisance; at worst, a dangerous impediment.
    Still, she wasn’t as colorless as she first appeared.  She’d caught him by surprise with her retort about the dust, revealing a flash of wit followed by an impressive blush.  She made him wonder—and smile.  That alone gave him pause.
    Silhara couldn’t remember the last time he’d found something worth smiling about that didn’t involve mockery, yet in the last ten minutes Cumbria’s little spy almost coaxed a laugh out of him with her comment and the way she eyed him when he offered her the orange.  He didn’t think her expression could be more suspicious or fearful if he’d held out a live pit viper.
    “Are you going to eat it?”  He pointed to the orange, untouched next to her bowl.
    She stiffened, as if bracing herself for something unpleasant.  He noted her hands as she reached reluctantly for the fruit.  Her knuckles were red, chafed—like his.  Like Gurn’s.  This was a woman who labored in Cumbria’s household.  No pampered ward here, but one who did menial work.
    There was a meticulous grace in the way she peeled the orange and something entrancing in the way she ate it.  She bit into the segment slowly, either from caution or enjoyment, and her actions riveted his attention.  He shook his head.  Gods, it’s been too long since I’ve had a woman.   He smirked when her eyes widened after the first bite.
    “It’s so sweet!”
    “’Twas no empty boast when I said we harvested the best fruit here.  Neith’s oranges always sell out at market.”
    He didn’t share in her appreciation.  Oranges were a staple of his diet, and he loathed them.  He conquered the urge to gag each time he ate one.  But eat them he did, always with the thought that some day he might grow to like them and rid himself of the memory tied to them.
    Martise finished the orange with more enthusiasm but refused his offer of another.  She complimented Gurn on his porridge, and the two shared a warm smile.  Their immediate camaraderie puzzled Silhara.  This wasn’t the mating dance of man and maid, more a recognition of long-separated friends finally reunited.  He’d noted Gurn’s immediate attachment to the girl.  Martise appeared to