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Only three people in the stronghold possess that privilege. Sarveth is attending to the eastern accounts. Joran is inspecting the lower gate.

That leaves my wife.

Fiona enters carrying a clay pot beneath one arm and a folded length of stained cloth in the other. Damp earth marks the front of her plain green gown. Several strands of chestnut hair have escaped her braid, and a dark streak crosses one freckled cheek.

I look from the soil to the war table.

“You are dirty.”

“I have been working with dirt.”

“That was evident.”

She closes the door with her heel. “Then why mention it?”

I return my attention to the map. “Because you have brought it into my war room.”

“I brought myself into your war room. The dirt came with me.”

The stronghold has endured sieges, rival houses, royal inspections, and one disastrous winter in which ice split the western tower from roof to foundation. None of those threats prepared it for Fiona Holt.

Fiona Morwen’thir, according to the contract and the Arbiter’s record.

She still calls herself Holt whenever anyone asks.

During her first days here, she has opened windows that servants insist have remained closed for decades. She has requested buckets, brushes, seed trays, lamp oil, linen strips, bone meal, and more warm water than the northern bathing rooms use in a month. She has sent Briar into storage chambers that the household had forgotten. Yesterday, I found three servants debating the proper treatment of root rot outside the council chamber.

The solarium is responsible.

Or Fiona is.

I have not decided whether separating the two serves any purpose.

She crosses toward the war table. I lower the flow of magic before she reaches it. The ridges remain visible, but the black light along their edges dims.

“That table is neptherium,” I say. “Do not put the pot on it.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“You put a basket of roots on a carved balustrade yesterday.”

“The balustrade survived.”

“It was made during my grandfather’s rule.”

“Then it has survived worse things than roots.”

She sets the clay pot on the stone ledge beneath the nearest window. Small green shoots rise from its soil, too young to identify. She takes the stained cloth and wipes her hands with deliberate care.

I wait for her to explain why she is here.

No explanation follows.

“What do you require?” I ask.

“Sunlight.”

“You entered the wrong room.”