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working this veil for my brother’s wife. Do you think she’ll like it?”
    She’s holding out the linen, hopeful as a dog with a stick, so I take it carefully in both hands and pretend to care. The stem stitches look loose, like gallows-rope, so I sneak a quick peek at the back. The knots are a mess, all tangled and lumpy.
    I grin outright. I can do better work with my feet in the dark.
    â€œI spent all winter on it,” Emmaline says proudly. “My brother and his wife live in Shrewsbury, but they’re coming to visit this summer.”
    â€œUgh, why?”
    Emmaline looks puzzled. “Why not?”
    I gesture around. “Who would set foot in this town if they could avoid it?”
    â€œYou mean Caernarvon?” Emmaline cocks her head. “But it’s a lovely place! You’ve come in spring, true enough, and it’s a bit gray now, but come summer you’ll fall in love with it.”
    â€œWhat about . . .” I grimace. “The people. Who live out there. Without the walls.”
    â€œThe Welsh?” Emmaline smiles as if we’re sharing a secret. “Don’t be troubled by them. Most newcomers find them odd at first, but once you know them, they’re charming. They have the most beautiful children, and you should hear them sing.”
    Somehow I doubt that Emmaline has ever been within spitting distance of a Welsh person, much less been saddled with an ill-mannered one as a servant.
    The apron girl appears at the top of the stairs bearing a tray loaded with honey wafers.
    Honey wafers
and
gingerbread. Sir John ought to change his name to Croesus de Coucy.
    Emmaline sits on the bed and holds out the plate of wafers. I take a big handful and cram them in my mouth without anyone to say me nay, while Emmaline’s happy chatter about the Eden that is Caernarvon flows over me like rain over feathers.
    Â 
    I have a bellyache. Emmaline’s company must have upset my digestion. I retire to the floor of my plain, cold, untinted bedchamber with a cool cloth over my eyes and a mug of weak small beer infused with chamomile.
    I’m better by supper, and I grumble belowstairs to eat sparling and cabbage with antler spoons.
    Up the street, Emmaline is eating honey wafers and wasting gold thread on that excuse for a veil.
    â€œSo,” says my father, “a nice surprise at dinner today.”
    I sniff and stab at my sparling.
    â€œYou’re always complaining how much you miss Alice and Agnes. I thought you’d welcome the company of another young female.”
    â€œThat girl isn’t Agnes or Alice.”
    My father lowers his meat-knife. “You will be pleasant to Emmaline de Coucy. Her family built this borough. Sir John was one of the first Englishmen here.”
    I wrinkle my nose at my trencher.
    â€œCecily.” My father’s voice has an edge I shrink from.
    â€œVery well. I will be pleasant.”
    â€œShe would make you a very good friend,” my father says as he tears off another piece of bread. “Invited to an
honesti
home within a fortnight of arriving—I barely believe such fortune. The saints are looking out for us, sweeting, to bring us into the graces of the town’s elite. To say naught of my taking the oath by midsummer, when I thought Martinmas at the earliest. Almost six months early! It’s most fortunate, and we must make of it what we can.”
    My father can make what he wants of this place. It’ll be all I can do to run this house and keep my gowns in good repair and not get murdered until we can go home to Edgeley Hall.
    Â 
    God is merciful to sinners! The pack train just arrived! And at its head is Nicholas, my elder cousin.
    â€œCesspit!” he crows, hopping down from his palfrey and throwing his arms about me. He smells like horse and sweat and sweaty horse, but I hug him hard. It’s Nicholas, the lopeared oaf who puts horse apples in my shoes and hides my