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ride…”
    “I will see.” Quaeryt held up a hand. “I doubt that we would be invited, except that as the sister of Lord Bhayar, you could not be overlooked, and so … I, as a mere lowly princeps, must also be included.”
    “Quaeryt…” She grinned. “That is almost disrespect.”
    “But … I did remember the seamstress.”
    “This is only two weeks away.”
    Two weeks and a day. He didn’t voice that thought either.
    “Can we see this seamstress tomorrow?”
    “If it doesn’t snow.” He fervently hoped it would not be snowing on Samedi.
    In the end, Vaelora wore the pale gray blouse with a rose scarf, conceding that it was “acceptable.”
    Quaeryt thought she looked far more than acceptable as they left their quarters.
    The governor’s apartments—those formerly belonging to the Khanar—were also on the third level of the palace, but to get there, Quaeryt and Vaelora had to descend to the second level, using the staircase on the east side of the second-level gallery, then walk to the west end of the palace, where a separate staircase, which could be closed off by two sets of iron doors, if decorated and gilded, afforded the only entry.
    A single ranker stood by the staircase doors. “Good evening, sir, madame. The governor is expecting you.” He gave two quick jerks to a bell-pull.
    By the time Vaelora and Quaeryt reached the top of the pale gray marble steps, covered largely by a green carpet runner, Straesyr was waiting.
    “Greetings! We’ll join Emra in the private sitting room.” The governor smiled cheerfully. “The salon would be overly spacious for the four of us. Also, it would take a great deal of wood or coal to heat it to be comfortable.”
    If the private sitting room happened to be the smaller chamber, Quaeryt definitely understood what Straesyr meant, because the sitting room was larger than his official study as princeps.
    “Do join me,” offered Emra, rising from where she had been sitting.
    Quaeryt was still struck by the fact that Emra’s hair was a striking silver-gray, in contrast to her husband’s largely blond thatch.
    The four of them settled into leather upholstered armchairs set in a semicircle around a low table, placed in turn before a ceramic stove that radiated a comfortable heat.
    “Hot mulled wine … or red or white?” asked the governor.
    “The mulled, please,” rejoined Vaelora immediately.
    Straesyr left the sitting room briefly, then returned and reseated himself. Shortly, a ranker in uniform appeared with a tray on which were four mugs from each of which rose thin wisps of steam. Vaelora took her mug and immediately clasped her hands around it. Quaeryt took a small sip and almost burned his mouth. He set the mug on the table.
    “I spend much of my time here,” said Emra. “It’s the most comfortable chamber. Would you believe that the master bedchamber doesn’t have a stove—just a fireplace that you have to keep fired up all the time if you want to keep the chill out?”
    “It’s not quite that bad,” murmured Straesyr.
    Emra raised a single eyebrow, but said nothing.
    “The most comfortable room we have,” offered Quaeryt, “is the private dining chamber. The fireplace in the bedchamber smokes so much that we ended up sealing it up. Temporarily, with some timbers and rags, behind a most ornate—and useless—fire screen.”
    “That works for you two. You’re young and newly wed,” replied Emra.
    “How long before we stop getting snow?” asked Quaeryt, looking to Straesyr.
    “Never,” said Emra quickly.
    “It should start tapering off in the next week or so, but we’ve had snow as late as in Avryl, and once even in Mayas.”
    “Like I said,” added Emra, “never.” Abruptly, she smiled. “I do tend to give Straesyr a great deal of grief about the chill, but I do prefer it to the heat of someplace like Thuyl. That’s where I grew up, you know. Solis is dry and cool compared to Thuyl.”
    Quaeryt let himself