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I drink slowly, considering my answer. A group of men in the opposite corner of the hall begin to sing. A merry tune, reminding me of a night so many years ago, in a hall very much like this one.

I knew so little then.

“What were you doing there? At that attack?” she asks.

I refill my mug, surprised to see hers empty as well. As I’m about to answer, the serving maid brings us two meat pies. The welcome respite could not have come at a better time. I can give her no real answers, and so, I give her something else instead in between bites.

Something to earn her trust.

“I am the son of a prostitute. Raised in a whorehouse in Galona. I’ve no notion who my father might be, nor does it concern me. Once, at ten and two, I was beaten so badly by an older boy for a loaf of bread I refused to give up that my mother was certain I would not live. She and her friends tended to me, saved me.”

She watches me, eating in silence.

“You asked if it is common where I’m from for ladies to frequent places such as this. Aye, Lady Hilla, the women I knew would think nothing of frequenting the Crow’s End. Or other places considered much more scandalous than this well-tended inn and tavern.”

I’ve told that story to no one but the man who took me away from Galona. Who saved me. Who I serve this day, and all my days.

As a reward, Lady Hilla speaks her own truth. I can see the evidence of it in her eyes.

“I did not commit adultery against my husband,” she starts. “Despite his advanced age and—” She looks down, her cheeks reddening. “That is to say . . .” She looks up once again.

“I was raised in a whorehouse, Lady Hilla. Nothing you could say will shock me, I assure you.”

“But . . .” Her full lips purse together. “You are an Elderman.”

Damn, but I am not. And am reminded of that fact just now as she looks at me.

“I understand what you are attempting to say. Go on.”

She nods quickly, grateful.

“And you know already, he is not a nice man.”

I make a very ungentlemanly sound at that. Lord Whitley is the very epitome of evil. Her description of him, generous.

“But still, I was not unfaithful to him.”

She speaks the truth.

Breaking our eye contact, she takes another bite and I do the same. We finish eating, the song long ended, with others having taken their place. Here, in this town, in this hall, the border battles and court politics seem so far away.

And yet, they are not. Everyone here is in danger if Father Silvester and men like Whitley, those who would consider personal gain over the good of the Isle, have their way.

“Your father had an innocent man beheaded, then?”

On this, she hesitates.

“There is more to the story?” I ask.

We’re interrupted as our meals are taken away. In the flurry of activity, I look to the innkeeper, who shakes his head. If we were being followed, our pursuers have not come into town. The gates are closed at sundown, and though the sky has not yet completely darkened, tonight they close early.

For us.

For me.

“Aye,” she admits, “there is.”

Sighing, she sits back against her seat, seemingly unaware that her life might have been in danger this day. If the men that followed us were truly from Craighcebor, they’d care not that Lady Hilla is the queen’s sister. Or that Cettina’s men prevented the attack on their village. Sometimes facts can be misplaced until it is too late. I’ve seen more than one innocent be tried, and executed, too quickly.