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to the tables from the kitchens; here those smaller platters were served from the food left warming in the stone boxes at the sides of the Hall.
    The trencher bread was served first, to act as a plate—and as part of the meal—for those who were not of the High Table. Then bowls of shellfish soup were brought to the tables—wooden bowls, for those at the low tables, silver for those at the high. Lord Ferson had never stinted the appetites of his people; until the kettles were empty, anyone could have as much of the common food as he wished, and after a long day of work in the cold, appetites were always hearty. This was one of Moira’s favorite foods, but she had little taste for it tonight.
    â€œAnd this is what, Lord Ferson?” asked Massid with interest, as the bowl was placed before him. Without waiting for an answer, he dipped his spoon in it and tasted it. Of course he wasn’t worried about poison—he’d seen himself that everyone was served from the same common kettles.
    â€œInteresting!” he said after the first cautious taste. “It could do with saffron, but—” he dipped for another spoonful “—quite tasty. I shall have spices sent to your kitchen, with instruction to their use, saffronamong them. I believe you will find it improves an already excellent dish.”
    â€œMost gracious of you, Prince,” Ferson replied, managing to sound gracious himself, given that he had no interest whatsoever in what he was given to eat so long as it wasn’t raw or burned. “Instructions would be wise. I have never heard of, nor tasted, this ‘saffron,’ and I fear my cook would be at a loss to deal with it.”
    â€œMore precious than gold, I promise you.” Moira could not see Massid from where he sat, though she had the uneasy feeling that he was staring in her direction. “Though not so precious as…other things.”
    Without a doubt, that was intended to be a compliment directed at her, and although she wished profoundly that she could call it a clumsy one, in all truth, it was courtly and elegant. And she only wished she could appreciate it. Massid was not uncomely. He was courteous, and if only he wasn’t the Prince of Jendara….
    But he was. And the King could never have approved of this, or she would have been informed. So this was all happening without the King’s knowledge.
    Treason? Very probably. Why else keep the knowledge of this little visit—and what Moira could only assume was going to be a marriage proposal and alliance with Lord Ferson of Highclere Sea-Keep—from the King?
    This was bad. This was very, very bad.
    And she had absolutely no idea what to do about it.
    Whatever curiosity those at the lower tables had about the visitor was completely overshadowed by the slices of venison laid on their trenchers. The High Table had a full haunch, which Ferson himself carved, but even the least and lowest got some bit of meat and the drippings that had been thriftily saved during the cooking poured over his bread. Nothing in the conversation of their superiors could possibly compete with that.
    Her father and the Prince continued to make polite conversation throughout the rest of the meal, which Moira ate without tasting. It was no more than polite conversation, however, with no hints of what was being planned; there was talk of how the weather had affected shipping this past summer, and how soon the storms would start. Massid spoke largely of falconry, her father of coursing hounds against stag and boar. And if there was a code in any of that, she couldn’t decipher it. By the time the sweet course came in, and the betrothal announcement she had dreaded throughout the entire meal never materialized, she felt a little of her tension ebbing. Only a little, but evidently there was going to be some negotiation going on before she was handed over.
    Which was going to give her the chance to think calmly