“No.”
“A short poem?”
“No.”
“What about one line?”
“Amelia.”
She sighed. “Fine. But I reserve the right to revisit this after mead.”
Hob pointed at her. “That’s a wise woman.”
Thomas looked at Hob. “Why are you still here?”
“To offer counsel.”
“You have none.”
“I have much. First, never tell a woman to calm herself.”
Amelia pointed at Hob. “That is excellent advice.”
“Second,” Hob continued, warming to his subject, “if she asks whether you like her gown, the answer is aye.”
“What if I have not seen the gown?”
“Aye.”
“What if there is no gown?”
“Aye.”
“What if?—”
“Aye,” Hob said firmly.
Thomas considered him for a long moment. “You have been married?”
“Nay.”
“Betrothed?”
“Nay.”
“Courted a woman longer than three days?”
Hob lifted his cup. “I observe.”
Edith snorted from near the hearth. “You lurk.”
“A useful soldier habit.”
“A useless domestic one.”
Amelia laughed, and the sound moved through the hall like sunlight finding cracks in old stone. She had not slept enough. Her heart still ached when she thought of her mother in the ruined tower, clutching Amelia’s purse in the rain. Her hand still bore the small cut where the sapphire had cut her. And somewhere in the quiet corner of her mind lived the knowledge that only three men in this room knew the truth of her.
Thomas.
