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bed with a sigh. It was a comfortable, if old-fashioned, bedchamber. The furnishings looked to be of a style at least a century old, heavy and dark. The bed and the windows were curtained with exquisite crewelwork on faded yellow cloth. The coffered ceiling was low, and the walls were hung with tapestries. The overall effect was dark, but somehow almost cozy.
    But the chaos of her emotions robbed her of any sense of comfort. Seemingly normal servants, the offer of dinner, this lovely old room—none of it was in keeping with the forbidding granite exterior, the sinister-looking hall of weapons, or the mysterious master of Pendurgan himself. Which was the true face of Pendurgan? And which was the true nature of her own fate?
    Verity sat unmoving on the bed for several minutes, too unsettled to stir. She considered unpacking her trunk, just to have something to do, to help keepher mind off the events of the last few hours. But to unpack would be tantamount to admitting defeat, to accepting this strange and dreadful situation. She lost track of time as she sat there on the bed, her mind a blank, as though waiting for someone to tell her what to do.
    Finally she rose mechanically, untied her bonnet, and placed it on the bed. Then she removed her damp cloak and draped it over a chair near the fire. She had held her hands out to the flames to warm them when she heard the door behind her open. Startled, she straightened and turned around to find a dark figure silhouetted in the door frame. It was a woman, tall and thin, with her arms folded across her chest. She stepped into the room.
    The light from the fire showed her to be an older woman with a pinched face and silver hair swept up in a style of some thirty years ago. She wore a simple black bombazine gown with no more ornament that a stark white fichu at the neck. She made an altogether strange and startling appearance, and Verity stared at her as though she were an apparition.
    â€œSo,” the woman said at last, her voice dripping with disdain, “you are the one he brought here.” Her eyes raked Verity from head to foot in a most insolent manner.
    Who was this woman? Her manner of speech, if not her words, was refined, without the thick Cornish accent of Tomas or the softer Cornish of Mrs. Tregelly. She was certainly not a servant—a servant would never use such an impertinent tone. Unless, of course, it was directed to another servant. That must be it. Despite the comfortable bedchamber and apparent hospitality, she was to be a servant after all. But what sort of servant?
    Unnerved by the woman’s brazen scrutiny, Verity could only stare.
    â€œHmph. And you’re not even pretty,” the woman said, her sharp gaze taking in Verity’s soaked hem and flattened hair. Unconsciously, Verity smoothed back stray wisps of hair at her temples and tucked them behind her ears. Why did this peculiar old woman care so much about her looks? Unless…unless she was being inspected for her suitability in a role where a woman’s looks, and body, were of primary importance?
    â€œNothing like Rowena. Nothing at all. She was a beauty.” The woman continued to glare at her in such a disquieting manner that Verity finally dropped her gaze to the floor. “Well, you will discover the truth about him soon enough.” She turned quickly and walked away, the black skirts rustling with her brisk movement. When she reached the door, she paused and looked over her shoulder. “And then, by heaven,” she said, “you will rue the day you ever came to Pendurgan.”
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    Verity sank down on the bed and decided she’d had enough. She must get out of this place. Somehow, she had to escape. There was no one to help her; so she must be calm and she must think, without giving in to the wave of utter helplessness that threatened to overcome her. She was not used to taking matters into her own hands, and had generally allowed others to direct her