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I thanked him and declined.

Instead, I spent the day walking the fences with Wat.

I'd given Edmund Fitzwalter enough of my life already.

He wasn't getting another afternoon.

The anniversary feast had been my idea.

By the time the day arrived, I was beginning to regret it.

Ninety people were expected, and the household had spent the better part of two weeks arguing over seating arrangements, musicians, food, and whether Little John should be allowed near the ale before supper.

I stood in our bedchamber that afternoon, staring at two gowns laid across the bed.

One was blue.

Guy liked that one.

He'd never said so, but I knew.

The other was green, a gift from Merry that I suspected had cost more than a decent horse.

I picked up the blue gown, held it against myself, then put it down again.

Six years of living in breeches and boots had left me with a lasting distrust of clothing that required another person to lace me into it.

The door opened behind me.

"You're home early," I said.

"Hugh sent me home."

I turned.

"He did what?"

Guy removed his gloves and placed them on the chest.

"He informed me, in front of two clerks, that I've been unbearable since Monday."

I smiled.

"Has he?"

"He also said nobody in Nottingham could get a straightforward decision out of me, and that he'd manage the office until Thursday."

Guy sat on the edge of the bed.

"Unfortunately, he's correct."

"And you resent him for it."

"Deeply."

His gaze moved toward the gowns.

"The blue."