The pain wouldn't let her sleep.

  It wasn't the sharp bite of the wound itself—that had dulled under Mother Elna's ministrations and the careful stitching Master Andrieu had done before she left Durnhal. This was something deeper. A persistent ache that lived in her left side, radiating through muscle with each breath. And lower still, a different kind of emptiness. One without name or remedy.

  Fran shifted against the pillows. The movement pulled at healing tissue, and she winced.

  Beside her, Rudy lifted his head—a mass of fur and concern. His green eyes caught the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains.

  "I'm fine," she whispered.

  He didn't believe her. Neither did Nymph, who watched from her position on the windowsill, a small sentinel against the snow-bright glass.

  Fran gave up on sleep.

  She lit the bedside candle with careful movements, wrapped herself in the dressing gown draped over the chair, and stood. Her body protested; her hand drifted briefly to her abdomen, then away.

  But she could walk. She could move. And she had to, because the alternative was lying in the dark, counting her heartbeats and feeling the phantom ache of something lost before she'd even known it existed.

  The cane Mother Elna had given her leaned against the bedside table. Fran looked at it, then at the short distance to the window. She could manage without it. Probably.

  She made it three steps before her left side reminded her why probably wasn't good enough. Her hand shot out to brace against the wall, and she stood there breathing carefully until the sharp complaint faded to its usual persistent ache.

  The cane was in her hand a moment later. She didn't like needing it—but she liked falling over even less.

  The two books Gale had left for her sat on the small table near the window. She'd meant to look at them properly after settling in, but there had been reports waiting, and Sir Rhyve wanting to brief her, and the simple exhaustion of being home after everything that had happened.

  Now the palace slept. The reports could wait until morning. And she needed something—anything—to think about besides the way her body felt wrong in ways she couldn't quite articulate.

  The Painted Garden of Zanatheia lay on top, its cover painted with impossibly large blossoms in shades of purple and gold that no real flower had ever achieved. The kind of book designed more for beauty than accuracy. Gale would have bought it purely for its ridiculousness—a small act of rebellion against the serious tomes that usually filled his hands.

  Fran opened to the first page and began to read.

  The archipelago of Zanatheia lies like a jewel in the southern seas, where winter never comes and flowers bloom in perpetual summer...

  Melodramatic. Slightly absurd. The prose was purple enough to match the cover illustrations. But there was something soothing about it—the elaborate descriptions of impossible gardens, flowers that sang in the evening breeze, trees that bore fruit in twelve different colors.

  She turned pages slowly, taking in the ornate illustrations. Here, a climbing vine heavy with bell-shaped blooms. There, a grove of trees with silver bark and leaves like beaten copper. The artist had taken obvious liberties with botanical accuracy, but the results were beautiful in their own exaggerated way.

  On the fifth page, her eye caught something in the margin.

  A small mark, barely larger than her thumbnail. She leaned closer to the candlelight.

  A hare.

  Simple ink strokes—economical but alive. It sat at the edge of an illustration of flowering vines, tiny paws tucked beneath it, ears alert.

  Fran blinked. Looked at the previous pages. Nothing. Looked ahead to the next page.

  There—another one. This time mid-leap, as if jumping from one paragraph to the next. The lines were quick, confident. The same hand that had written For emergencies, sleepless nights, or any other trouble you refuse to admit to.

  She turned back to the beginning and went through more carefully.

  The hare appeared throughout. Sometimes tucked into decorated capital letters, sometimes running along the bottom margin. Here, hanging from an illustrated vine. There, peering around the edge of a text block. On one page it seemed to be sniffing at a footnote. On another, surrounded by tiny stars that might have been sparks of magic.

  Without meaning to, she found herself following its journey. There was no text, no explanation. Just the small creature moving through the pages—sometimes confident, sometimes hesitant. Occasionally it rested, curled small against an illustration's edge. More often it moved forward.

  She finished The Painted Garden and reached for the second volume.

  On Salt and Spice: A Journey Through Kentarian Kitchens was older, thicker, its pages marked with ancient stains and notes in multiple hands. The faint scent of cardamom and pepper lingered in the binding. A practical book, well-used. The opposite of its companion in every way.

  The hare was here too.

  It continued through recipes and market descriptions, navigating around instructions for fish stew and the proper preparation of saffron rice. Between lists of ingredients and remarks about street vendors, the same small figure appeared, as if it had slipped from dream gardens into crowded kitchens without missing a step.

  Near the middle of the book, Fran found one that made her pause. The hare stood upright, looking ahead at something beyond the page's edge. The posture suggested determination, or perhaps uncertainty. Maybe both.

  She kept reading, turning more pages. The cookbook's final section dealt with festival foods—elaborate dishes meant for celebrations, for welcomings, for marking important occasions.

  On the second-to-last page, the hare reached something. A burrow entrance, rendered in the same simple strokes. Small. Humble. Easy to miss if you weren't looking.

  The next page showed only the tips of its ears as it disappeared inside.

  The final page, beneath a recipe for honey cakes, showed the interior. A few curved lines suggesting space. And there the hare stood, preparing something with the same careful attention to detail Fran had seen in every drawing. Setting things just so.

  Preparing a welcome.

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  Fran closed the book slowly. Her throat felt tight.

  She touched the cover—worn leather, smoothed by countless hands before Gale's and now hers. Then she opened it again to the beginning and followed the whole journey once more. Slower this time. Taking in each small figure, each careful line.

  Rudy appeared at her elbow, pressing his warm bulk against her arm. Not demanding, just present. She stroked his head absently, still looking at the drawings. The movement tugged at her side and she breathed through it.

  Outside, snow began to fall. Silent, steady, accumulating on the windowsill where Nymph sat watch.

  Eventually Fran’s fingers found the ring on her left hand—sapphire catching candlelight, the silver band still faintly warm from her skin. She turned it once. Twice.

  The last and only letter lay folded in her desk, its date now weeks old. That note this evening—For emergencies, sleepless nights, or any other trouble—was the closest thing to contact since that night in Durnhal.

  She looked down at the books again. At the small story told in margins and empty spaces, without words.

  Her eyes burned. She blinked hard and did not let herself cry.

  There would be work tomorrow. There was always work. But for now she sat with the books and the sleeping cat and the one who kept watch, and traced ink lines laid down by hands she knew better than her own.

  The candle burned lower. The snow kept falling. And eventually, sometime in the hours before dawn, exhaustion pulled her under where she sat—cheek pillowed on her arms, the cookbook open beneath her, Rudy pressed warm and protective against her wounded side.

  Nymph remained at the window, standing guard, as cats do, when their human hurts in ways that have no name.

  The grey light of morning found Fran still at the table, her head resting on the open cookbook. The feel of a safe burrow and a prepared welcome lingered, a fragile counterpoint to the crick in her neck and the persistent ache in her side.

  Rudy hadn't moved from his position against her wounded side. He lifted his head when she stirred, blinking slowly.

  "Good morning to you too," she murmured, and immediately regretted speaking. Her voice came out rough, her throat dry.

  She straightened slowly, spine cracking, and closed the book with deliberate care. The hare was safe inside now. So was she—for a little while longer.

  The cane had fallen sometime during the night, lying on the floor beside the chair. She retrieved it before standing—had learned that lesson yesterday when she'd tried to walk without it and nearly collapsed in front of Sir Rhyve.

  Outside, Vartis lay wrapped in fresh snow. The palace courtyard below showed only a few sets of footprints—guards making their rounds, kitchen staff beginning the day's work. Dawn couldn't be far off, though the winter sun was taking its time.

  A soft knock at the door.

  "Your Grace?" Silja's voice, quiet and respectful.

  "Come in."

  The maid entered with her usual competent efficiency, carrying a tray of morning tea and what looked like bread still warm from the kitchens. She took in the scene—the Duchess at the table instead of in bed, the books spread open, the cats in defensive positions—without comment.

  "Good morning, Your Grace. I've brought—" She stopped mid-step.

  Nymph had dropped from the windowsill and positioned herself between Silja and Fran, ears flat, green eyes narrow.

  "Nymph," Fran said quietly. "Enough."

  The cat held her ground another moment before retreating with obvious reluctance. But she didn't go far—just far enough to maintain a watchful distance.

  Silja set the tray down with careful movements. "Shall I help Your Grace dress?"

  "Please." Fran stood, one hand braced against the table. The room tilted slightly before steadying.

  "Is Your Grace well?"

  "Well enough." A lie, but a necessary one. "Just stiff from sleeping in a chair."

  They moved to the bedroom, Fran leaning on the cane with each step, Rudy padding along at her heels. The wardrobe held the usual array of formal gowns—too many, really, for someone who spent most days signing documents and arguing with council members. Her eye fell on a dress in deep grey wool, simply cut, with minimal embroidery. Practical. Warm. It wouldn't draw attention or invite comment. She'd worn it last winter, before everything. Before Durnhal, before the knife, before—

  Silja helped her into it, and Fran felt the difference immediately. The fabric hung looser across her shoulders, the waist no longer fitted quite right. Weeks in bed, eating nothing but broth and whatever she could force down past the nausea. Fever burning through reserves she hadn't known she'd need.

  Silja's hands paused at the laces, then continued without comment. But Fran saw the flicker of concern in her expression before she masked it.

  "I used to manage this myself," she said, the words coming out more sharply than intended.

  "You did, Your Grace." Silja's tone was diplomatic. "And you will again."

  "Just not today."

  "Not today," Silja agreed, adjusting the laces with practiced efficiency. "Though if Your Grace prefers, I could simply leave you to wrestle with these fastenings for the next hour."

  Despite everything, Fran's mouth twitched. "Point taken."

  With Silja's help, she managed the dress and a simple arrangement of her hair—braided and pinned, nothing elaborate. The wound's dressings showed faintly through the fabric. She'd need to change them soon, but that could wait until after she'd dealt with whatever waited in her study.

  "Will Your Grace take breakfast in the sitting room?" Silja asked.

  "No. The study." Fran took a careful sip of the tea—still hot, heavily sweetened. "And ask Sir Rhyve to join me there within the hour, please."

  "Of course, Your Grace."

  The walk to her study felt longer than it should have. Each step was accompanied by the tap of the cane echoing in the stone corridors, and by the time she reached the door her left side was protesting loud enough that she had to pause, one hand braced against the doorframe, before continuing inside.

  Rudy accompanied her, a warm presence against her right leg. Nymph followed at a distance, silent and watchful.

  The study smelled of parchment and beeswax. A fire had already been lit—someone, probably Silja, had come through earlier. The desk held the usual organized chaos: reports waiting to be read, correspondence requiring replies, a small stack of account books from Master Merovein.

  And there, separate from the rest, a sealed letter bearing an official stamp.

  But first, the reports.

  Fran settled into her chair with more care than grace, propping the cane against the armrest where she could reach it easily. The simple act of walking from her chambers had left her breathless in a way that annoyed her more than the pain itself.

  She reached for the top document. It bore the seal of Brenwaith's watch captain, responding to her request from before leaving the eastern baronies.

  Your Grace—

  Per your instructions, I submit this accounting of recent incidents along the eastern trade road. Three merchant caravans reported harassment by armed groups, though no major losses. The watch has increased patrols. No sign of the Golden Banner remnants within town walls.

  She set it aside and picked up the next. From Redreach. Then Blackholt. Then smaller villages she'd visited or sent aid to—each reporting similar patterns. The Golden Banner's collapse had scattered its members like seeds on the wind. Some had fled toward Vernador. Others had simply vanished into the countryside, probably hoping to disappear before justice found them.

  But it was the reports from the larger towns that made her pause.

  Brenwaith's population had swelled by nearly two hundred souls—refugees from the eastern baronies and across the Vernador border, fleeing the raiders and the civil war beyond. Blackholt reported similar numbers. Even smaller villages had taken in families who'd lost everything to the bandits.

  The numbers accumulated as she read. Hundreds of displaced people. Maybe more than a thousand across the entire region.

  She thought of Delran's Hollow—the burned barn, the children with hollow eyes, families sleeping in barns and common rooms because their homes no longer existed.

  Her hand drifted to the account books. The duchy's finances were... not dire, exactly. But stretched. The harvest had been adequate, the trade routes were recovering, and there was her inheritance—the obscene amount of money Duke Alric had left her, most of which still sat in secured vaults because she'd had no idea what to do with that much wealth.

  What if—

  The thought was incomplete, barely formed. But it settled in her mind like a seed waiting for spring: something permanent, something that would outlast the immediate crisis.

  She had handed out blankets and coin before. They lasted a season. Then winter came again.

  But how—?

  Fran's eye fell on the sealed letter.

  She'd been avoiding it, she realized. Leaving it for last because some instinct had warned her that whatever it contained would demand immediate attention.

  The seal was official. Royal, even. And the handwriting on the address was familiar in a way that made her stomach tighten.

  She picked it up, turned it over. The wax seal bore the mark she'd expected: the crown and tower of Velarith's high offices.

  And below it, pressed into the wax with deliberate clarity: the personal sigil of Lord Regent Valden Thareth.

  Of course it's him.

  The memory came unbidden—Orveil, last spring. The scandal that hadn't been a scandal, the carefully orchestrated humiliation that had somehow become her reputation instead of her ruin. Thareth's polite fury, his daughter's ruined betrothal celebration, the way he'd smiled at Fran over wine while making it abundantly clear that he would remember.

  Her fingers found the letter opener—silver, balanced, a gift from someone whose name she'd forgotten. She slid it under the seal with steady hands.

  The wax cracked. The letter unfolded.

  And she read.