Sandry was asleep the moment she crawled under the blankets. She didn’t know how long she stayed that way before someone grabbed her hand. She sat bolt upright, ready to launch a fistful of power against her attacker’s clothes, and opened her eyes to darkness.

Dark! she thought, horrified. Someone’s grabbing me and it’s dark, where’s my light, my lamp!

Then she saw a nimbus of light around the darkness over her. The person who had woken her stood between her and the chunk of crystal that was her protection against ever being left to wake in the dark. Sandry pushed the person back a step, allowing more light to flow over the intruder’s shoulder. A woman of thirty or so stood beside Sandry. Her face ran with tears. She continued to hang on to one of Sandry’s hands as if her life depended on it.

“Clehame, I beg you, don’t call for the servants!” the woman begged softly. “Please, I mean you no harm, I swear it on my mother’s name!”

“You silly creature!” the girl snapped, trying to tug free. “I don’t have to call the servants—didn’t they tell you I’m a mage? I might have hurt you! Especially when you got between me and the light, for Mila’s sake.”

The woman refused to let go of her. “Please, Clehame, I don’t know if they said you were a mage, but it wouldn’t make any difference. I would be better off killed by magic than live on as I live now!”

Sandry pushed herself upright until she could lean over and grab the crystal with her free hand. Holding it, she brought the light closer to her captor’s features. The woman flinched back from it, but her grip on Sandry’s hand did not ease, and her haggard dark eyes never left Sandry’s face.

The stranger looked as if she’d been lovely as a girl, and had not yet lost all trace of her looks. Her hair was light brown and coarse, tumbling out of its pins. Her nose looked as if it had been broken once, and deep lines bracketed her nose and wide mouth. She wore a coarse white undergown and practical dark overgown, short-sleeved and calf-length to reveal the embroideries underneath. The clothing was good in its weave and stitching, the embroideries well-done. With her power Sandry could tell the cloth and embroideries were well-made. Her guest may have been a peasant, but she was not poor.

“How did you get in here?” Sandry demanded. “The castle gates are closed.”

“I came in this afternoon, with a shipment of flour,” her visitor replied. “I smuggled myself up here. I hid in one of the wardrobes so I would not be sent home before the gates closed for the night.”

“Then why not reveal yourself while I was awake?”

The woman hung her head. “I have slept badly all week, fretting over this,” she confessed. “It was warm in there, and there were folded comforters under me. I…fell asleep,” she confessed. “Truly, I did not mean to frighten you, but I had to speak to you before, before anyone comes to find me.” She was rumpled enough to have spent hours folded up in a wardrobe.

“I don’t know what you think to accomplish by this invasion,” Sandry told her sternly. “I’m only here for a short time.”

“But you can help me!” the older woman whispered, her grip so tight that Sandry’s fingers began to ache. “You’re the only one who can. If you don’t, I will die by my own hand, I swear it!”

Sandry scowled. “I really don’t approve of drama, Ravvi—at least tell me your name.”

“Gudruny, Clehame,” the woman whispered, her head bowed. “I will not give you my married name, because I never wanted it and wish to be rid of it through your mercy.”

Sandry shook her head with a sigh. “I don’t see how I can help you there,” she told Gudruny. “But in any case, let me put on a robe and slippers, and let’s get some real light in here. You can tell me all about it. Now please let go, before my fingers break.”

If anything, Gudruny’s hold tightened. “Swear it on your ancient name,” she begged. “Swear to me by all the gods you will not call for the guards.”

“I swear. Though, really, my word as a noble should be enough!” From the way Gudruny’s eyes scuttled to the side, she didn’t share Sandry’s opinion of a noble’s word. Sandry shook her head, then asked, “May I now have my hand?”

Gudruny released it as if it had turned into a hot coal. Sandry massaged her aching fingers, then started to get up. Gudruny leaped to her feet and fetched Sandry’s robe, helping her into it while Sandry thrust her feet into her slippers. Before Sandry could move, Gudruny knelt before the fire, poking the embers into flame and adding fresh wood. Even though it was spring, the air was chilly.

Sandry lit a taper from the flames, and with it lit the wicks on a branch of candles. She had to be desperate, to do this, she thought, remembering the way her Namornese companions had spoken of dealing with the peasants who didn’t pay nobles the proper respect. I doubt they’d be very kind to someone who crept into a noble’s bedroom. The least I can do is hear her out, and make certain she comes to no harm. Once they had decent light, she nodded to one of the two chairs that framed the hearth. “Seat yourself. Should I ring for tea?” When Gudruny half-leaped to her feet from the chair, Sandry grimaced. “Very well, no tea. Please stop leaping about like that.” As Gudruny settled back, Sandry took the other seat. “Now,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “Tell me what brings you up here. A direct tale, if you please. I’ve been riding all day, and I want some rest.”