Louvaen whirled. The woman holding out her hand for the cloak was a small creature, no taller than Cinnia, but wiry with sharp features and brown hair streaked gray. She raked Louvaen with a gaze that measured, examined and judged. Whatever she saw made her eyebrows arch, and she offered a faint smile.
“Lou, this is Magda, housekeeper and cook for Ketach Tor.” She plucked the mantle out of Louvaen’s hand and passed it to the woman. “Magda, this is my older sister Louvaen Duenda.”
Magda inclined her head in polite greeting. “Welcome to Ketach Tor, Mistress Duenda.”
Louvaen returned both the gesture and the smile. “You keep a fine hall, madam.”
The housekeeper’s chest puffed up with pride, and her eyes sparked approval at Louvaen’s compliment. She held the dripping cloak and gestured with her other hand. “Give me your stockings and shoes. They’re bound to be soaked through. You can warm your feet by the fire.”
Cinnia pushed Louvaen gently toward one the two chairs facing the hearth. “Sit there. I’ll fetch some dry stockings. No slippers, mind. Your feet are bigger than mine.”
In no time, Louvaen was comfortably ensconced in a chair with a blanket draped over her shoulders, a mug of warm ale spiced with nutmeg in her hand, and a pair of Cinnia’s stockings encasing her feet and legs. Magda had vanished with her wet things, remarking over her shoulder they’d dry faster at the kitchen hearth. She disappeared behind a set of wooden screens carved in linen fold patterns.
Cinnia sat across from her, clasping her own mug. “Is Papa very ill?”
Louvaen shrugged. “A dry cough and a touch of fever. Nothing bad, but he shouldn’t be out in this weather.”
“No one should, not even you. You could have waited until the weather turned.”
“There were no snow storms until I was magicked to the edge of a cliff, dear.” Louvaen sipped her ale in an attempt to blunt her tongue’s sharpness. “I wouldn’t be here at all if you hadn’t run off with de Lovet.” She took in the hall once more and peered upward to the mezzanine and second floor. “Where is he, by the way?”
Cinnia shot her a wary glance from under a sweep of blonde curls. “Gavin? Why do you ask?”
Louvaen scowled. “So I can shoot him for spiriting you out of Monteblanco.” She pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. “Do you understand what you’ve done to your reputation, Cinnia? I’ve told more lies in the past week than I have in my entire life trying to explain why you vanished.”
The girl had the grace to flush with embarrassment but raised her chin. “I’m sorry I made you and Papa worry, but you read my note. You knew I wasn’t in any danger.”
“I knew no such thing! What we know of Gavin de Lovet is only what he’s told us.” She gestured at the hall. “Wealthy or not, and I’m wagering on the ‘not,’ the de Sauveterres live in a fortress. A fortress, Cinnia, built on a spit of rock surrounded by a gorge. There are drawbridges and arrow slits and a hall filled with every manner of sharp implement. I can only imagine what the kitchen must look like. These people obviously have made enemies, ones who want to do great harm to them. You shouldn’t be here; neither should I.”
Cinnia thumped her mug on the floor. A frown line marred her brow, and she crossed her arms. Louvaen signed and braced herself for at least an hour of fruitless arguing. “This castle was built hundreds of years ago, Lou. Those enemies are long gone.” She passed a hand over her bodice. “As you can see, I’m perfectly well. Happy too. Besides, I don’t care what a bunch of old crones in the sewing society think of me.”
“You should care if you intend to marry one of their sons.” Cinnia was beautiful, intelligent and sweet. She was also mule-headed, and Louvaen fought not to tear out her own hair in frustration.
Cinnia stuck her nose in the air. “I’m not interested in any of their precious sons.”
Louvaen half rose out of her chair. “For gods’ sake, stop being so daft. A young, unmarried woman who runs off with a man makes herself a target for every Jimenin and his ilk to try and make her his bawd, willing or not.” Cinnia’s eyes, soft as a doe’s, filled with tears. Louvaen’s heart lurched. She abandoned her seat and sank to her knees in front of her sister. Cinnia’s hand trembled as Louvaen pressed her palm against her cheek for a moment before turning to kiss it. “That is a bitter life, my love. Something you’ll never suffer while I live.”
Cinnia’s sad smile was uncannily wise. She ran her thumb over the curve of Louvaen’s cheekbone. “You can’t be my savior knight forever, Lou.”
“Watch me.”
They both laughed. Cinnia sniffled and blinked back her tears. “Did you know ‘Sauveterre’ means safe land?”
Louvaen snorted. “That’s rich. What ancestor enjoyed a fine turn of phrase to choose such a title?”
“It’s fitting. I’m safe here—from Jimenin and anyone else who’d force me.”
“And Gavin and his family?”
“They treat me like a lady of the manor. Gavin courts me as any fine gentleman, and Ambrose is the epitome of courtesy. You’ve met Magda.” Cinnia grinned. “She reminds me of you quite a bit. I think she’d flatten anyone who so much as blinked at me cross-wise.”
Louvaen liked Magda more and more. She noticed Cinnia hadn’t mentioned the patriarch of the family. “And Lord de Sauveterre? Is he as genteel as his son and his retainer?”
This time Cinnia hesitated for a second. “I’ve met Ballard de Sauveterre twice. He prefers his solitude.” She lowered her voice. “He’s disfigured and goes cloaked and hooded so none may gaze upon his face.” Her brown eyes glittered with pity. “Poor man; I’ve seen his hands. Mangled things with black claws.”
“Claws?” Louvaen leapt to her feet, still holding Cinnia’s hand. She tugged the girl up beside her. “What manner of man sports claws?” The same panic that had driven her to Ketach Tor through a sleepless week of teeth-chattering cold returned. “Find my boots and cloak and dress yourself warmly. We’ll have to leave whatever you’ve brought. I’ll meet you at the stable. Plowfoot is big enough to carry two. We’ll ride pillion.”
Cinnia jerked her hand away. “Stop it,” she snapped. “Neither of us is in any danger, and I’m not going anywhere. You’re welcome to stay here with me.” Anger and pleading warred for prominence on her features. “I want you to stay with me, at least until Gavin can bring money to Jimenin to pay Papa’s debt.” She crossed her arms again. “But you’ll not make me go with you, no matter how much shouting and ordering you do.”
