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“Just tell me,” he said firmly and patted her on the rump.

“I had my portrait painted once with Bors. On the occasion of my fifteenth birthday.”

“Bors was in the portrait?”

“He was just a pup.”

“Where does it hang?” he asked. “At Thurrold?”

“No,” she said quickly.

She was probably worried he would demand it’s return, he thought wryly. “At your brother’s place?” he guessed.

“Oh – no.”

“I should like to see it,” he said trying a different tack. Then he remembered they were still engaged when she was fifteen and she had started ‘Do you remember’. He raised his head off the pillow. “It’s at Vawdrey Keep,” he guessed, almost kicking himself.

“So, I believe,” she said awkwardly. “I mean, it was sent there as a gift, so for all I know it is there still.” They both fell silent.

“I don’t remember seeing it, Fenella,” he admitted at last.

“That’s not really all that surprising,” she said letting him off the hook. “For you were not around Sitchmarsh much that year, as you were soldiering. And not long after my birthday you were taken hostage at the battle of Adarva.” She stared at his shoulder a moment, but did not ask the question that was plainly on her lips.

“Where I got my scar,” he said in a harsher tone than he had intended.

She paled, but held his gaze. “So it was at Adarva.” She paused when he did not continue. “You do not wish to discuss it?”

“Not really,” he said dismissively, and made a last-ditch attempt to preserve the happy mood that was fast dissipating: “Maybe we should get your portrait painted again,” he said, in. “With Bors, of course.”

“It’s nerve-wracking enough selecting a poet,” said Fen with a brief smile. “Let alone a portrait painter.” She was already retreating, he could feel it, even though she hadn’t moved a muscle.

“So, commission Lady Bess’s artist,” he suggested.

“If you like,” she said quietly and tucked her head back on his shoulder.

It took them both a while to go off to sleep, but neither one of them spoke another word.

**

Oswald woke the next morning, from a series of disturbing dreams about locks and keys. He lay a moment, frowning over the conviction he had seen a small ornamental key like the one in his final dream. Then he noticed a lock of Fen’s hair was tickling his face, and abruptly the vision was gone. As was his habit, he was far over onto his wife’s side of the bed. She was lay on her side and he was curled around her warm, fragrant form. He could tell from her relaxed state, that she was still sound asleep. He resisted the urge to press closer to her delicious body, and instead rolled away. It was a wrench, and he told himself he had no right to feel so hard done by. He had only slept beside her for six nights. Why then, did it feel like the habit of a lifetime? It would not do to become dependent on her presence. After all, he had every intention of sending her down to the country before the month was out. That had always been his plan, he reminded himself, when something deep inside rebelled at the idea. He had no need of a wife at court, obstructing his work and making demands on his precious time. He had no need of a wife at Vawdrey Keep either, a traitorous voice whispered in his ear. After all, wasn’t he going to tear it down? He splashed his face with cold water from the basin. What was the point in sending her down there to set the old place to rights? He had a set of plans sat in his desk drawer that laid out the estate he wanted to build brick by brick. If Fenella went down there he had no doubt she would rally the dwindling servants to fix the roofs, and plant the gardens and generally restore law and order to that ramshackle, dilapidated old shell. But that wasn’t even it, he realized with a cold finger running down his spine. No. The problem was, that Vawdrey Keep was a full day and a half’s ride from the Winter Court. And from Caer-Lyonnes, the Summer Palace, it would take four days of travel. He glanced at the sleeping occupant in his bed. And that was not acceptable. He stepped into his braies and chauses and tied the laces at his crotch as he realized, he did not want his wife to be out of his reach. The notion was so outlandish to him, that he felt himself break out into a cold sweat. But he had promised her. He had assured her that there would be very little material change to her life. That she would still be neighbor to all her Sitchmarsh friends and her brother. And when he said it, he had meant it. But something had changed. He wasn’t sure what. How the hell was he going to get himself out of this predicament? There was a scuffling at the door, and he glanced at Fen again, before crossing the room to unlock the door. “Quiet, your mistress still sleeps,” he told Meldon, taking the pitcher of hot water from him.

“We’ll need to get the bath emptied,” Meldon grouched.

“That can wait,” Oswald closed the door on him, but he could hear sounds of stirring already in the room behind him.

“Good morning,” a sleepy voice hailed him softly. Then he heard a rustle and a faint exclamation, and smiled. No doubt she had just noticed her shift was missing after their bath together

“Good morning, wife,” he replied and turned to survey her all flushed and tousled behind the sheet she clasped to her breast. He had half a mind to crawl back under the covers with her. She rubbed her eyes. “And what are you about this morning?” He turned back to find a black tunic and continue dressing.

She yawned. “Eden Montmayne invited me to join a lady’s tapestry circle they hold in the lower gallery every sennight.”

“It’s good you’re making friends at court,” he said cautiously. “Perhaps you can improve on your own skills.”

She made no answer to this, but he could feel her eyes on his back as he continued to dress.

“You rose early,” she said. “I usually wake before you.”

He fastened the buttons and glanced over his shoulder. She looked a little put out. “Did you miss seeing me climb naked from the bed?” he asked. “I thought I’d spare your blushes this morning.” When she made no response, he turned to quirk a brow at her.