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Blue petals stand beside black metal.

By midday, they are still there.

11

FIONA

The solarium is alive enough to resist the cold.

Not warm, exactly. The repaired panes still leak mountain air around their warped frames, and frost gathers in the corners before dawn. Yet the braziers keep the worst chill from the planting tables. Water no longer freezes in the shallow clay basins. New shoots push through dark soil where nothing grew two weeks ago.

I kneel beside a tray of rirzed seedlings and press two fingers into the earth. The upper layer is dry, but moisture remains beneath it. Good. Too much water will rot the young roots before they strengthen.

Three polished copper scraps hang behind the tray. They catch the narrow sunlight and scatter it across the leaves. The reflected glow turns the glass walls amber.

The room still bears a century of neglect. Grime clings to the panes Briar and I cannot reach. Several planting beds remain filled with dead soil. Cracks divide the tiled floor, and one wooden shelf leans despite the wedge beneath its lowest leg.

But the air carries rosemary, damp earth, rirzed, and bitterroot instead of dust.

It is becoming an herbarium.

I rise and brush soil from my skirt. My calloused hands are stained nearly black around the nails. A Lady of Morwen’thir should probably possess cleaner fingers.

A Lady of Morwen’thir should also have entered the household by choice.

The stronghold has learned to endure my hands.

I cross to the central table, where packets of seeds sit beside labeled pieces of wood. I have planted everything hardy enough to survive the mountain winter. The fragile roots remain wrapped in damp cloth inside shallow boxes near the brazier. Some will fail. Others may adjust.

That is the bargain living things make with hostile soil.

A cough sounds beyond the solarium door.

It is low and rough. Whoever makes it tries to bury the noise against cloth.

I pause with a bundle of dried rirzed leaves in my hand.

The cough comes again.

“Briar?”

No answer reaches me.

I leave the bundle on the table and open the door. The servants’ passage beyond it is narrow and poorly lit. Bare stone replaces the carved wall panels found in the household corridors. A single lamp burns at the turn near the linen cupboards.

Briar stands beneath it with a folded sheet pressed against her mouth.

She lowers the cloth as soon as she sees me. Her face is pale except for two fevered patches high on her cheeks. Damp hair clings to her brow.

“You should be resting,” I say.

“I am working, my lady.”

“I am asking about your health.”

“I only swallowed dust in the west rooms.”

“You have been coughing for four days.”