There, simplicity ended. As Ranald began to address her, Laveth watched, rather than heard her responses. Something was different about the girl, the Queen decided, some elusive quality that couldn’t be named. It stood her in good stead as she knelt before the throne, refusing to be swallowed up by the Great Throne Room or embarrassed by her dress. Whatever the quality, it wasn’t evil. Having grown up in the region of Glynnis Fen, a region widely known for divers magicks, Laveth could spot a witch a mile away. Where she came from, every third grandmother had the ability to cure warts, inspire love or sour milk. She sensed no meddlesome spirits about the girl — just strength and an intelligence yet untapped. Perhaps she was only fey.

            The note was pushed deeper in the folds of her gown.

            “There is a vacant bed in the upper chamber alongside Lady Bresca. This one can earn her keep by helping Nan Maura with the babe.”

            That was then, and Laveth had never regretted her decision until now.

            “She will come,” muttered the Queen. “Mirella will be here, you’ll see.”