The one place Ciamon Caelt would not escort Beatrice was to church. Riccardo accompanied the sedan chair instead, now bearing Aunt Alys squeezed in beside Beatrice. Beatrice kept the blinds closed and dreaded the sight of the Queen and her ladies.

　　"It`s stuffy in here," the old woman complained.

　　The church was even stuffier, twice as crowded as Beatrice remembered. Ammarish men and women from all over the country packed in for the service that day, barely leaving enough room for people to move their arms. Beatrice even spied a few foreigners among the congregation, politely gawking at the religious service.

　　At first, it seemed like Mahaut tolerated these exotic visitors. But the chilly season forced them into close quarters with one another for longer than they`d planned on. Going on eight weeks with still no wedding, resentment simmered. Beatrice could feel it in the church that day. It was not lost on her that the sermons they heard that week were devoted to lectures on sin and sinfulness, and how women drew it into the world. How women plucked feathers from the wings of God`s angels to adorn their hair.

　　The priests must be seeing the feathered hats, too, Beatrice thought.

　　The tension spilled into the streets after the service. Shouts rang out from somewhere down the street as Beatrice let Riccardo and Aunt Alys help her limp out of the church. From her vantage point at the top of the steps, Beatrice saw a flurry of motion near two carriages attempting to pass one another. They`d collided and now the passengers were brawling the street. She recognized a Hellion of Hellachrae in his striped tunic as he tore the veil off an Ammarish woman`s head.

　　Beatrice`s body went rigid with outrage. She`d have stabbed a man who did that to her! She would have marched down the steps and slapped the man across the face right then if her ankle hadn`t been broken.

　　"Can you imagine," Aunt Alys huffed when they were safely back at the mansion. "The nerve! On a service day, right outside the church! I`d chalk it up to a mage`s enchantment, that`s what. Outrage on a woman`s body? You`ll always find a mage involved."

　　Later, Riccardo told her that the Hellion had been arrested, and lost a hand for the assault. The woman received a lashing for bearing her head in public.

　　"But it wasn`t her fault," Beatrice protested. "We both saw it. You know what the Hellions are like! The man was probably drunk. And she gets lashed for it?"

　　Riccardo shrugged, helpless. "I just wanted to warn you—pin that thing to your head. Glue it, if you have to. Gruffydd pleaded for clemency, and they gave the woman three lashes instead of twelve. You`ve got to be careful, Bea."

　　Beatrice wanted to do something, anything, to help the women of Ammar. Their ways were backward, they were stuffy and clannish. Their Queen was a hypocrite who dyed her hair. Even so, they were as much God`s children as anyone. Beatrice thought that they should be entitled to beautiful things and the safety to walk down the streets wearing as much or as little as they pleased.

　　At this, Beatrice sighed. The best that she could do for the women of Ammar was to marry their prince. A wedding was the only thing that would ease the tension in Mahaut. So she went back to waiting, flipping through the books Ciamon had brought to her while trying not to think of Ciamon. The author`s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

　　Beatrice was roused from a deep sleep by the sounds of shouts in the street. It was hours before dawn, the sky outside her window a thin gray veil. Far below in the streets, she could hear the sound of horses hooves over the cobblestones. They grated against the noise of the shouts.

　　It was still bitter cold, but she pushed the window pane open. Beatrice listened. She thought these were not the sounds of the citywatch rounding up drunks, but something more purposeful. The tension in the morning air grew as the sun rose.

　　From elsewhere in the house, Beatrice heard the slam of a door and hurried footsteps. She gritted her teeth and limped across her room, trying to reach the top of the steps to listen.

　　Aunt Alys was already rushing up the stairs toward her, yanking her veil down around her face. She waved Beatrice back.

　　"My nephew returns. Go back to your room," she whispered. "They`ll be locked in the library for a few hours. Then we can sneak down for a late breakfast&"

　　"What`s happened? Is it news?" Beatrice asked.

　　"Do you think they would tell a widow like me, girl? Whatever it is, it will come to us in time. Now, go back to your room!" Aunt Alys said.

　　Beatrice limped back to bed, seething. Aunt Alys stood between her and the stairs—blocking her from going down to see if Riccardo had come back to the house with Lord Gruffydd. Or with Ciamon.

　　Beatrice sat on the edge of her bed, waiting for one of them to come up or to send for her. The hours dragged by and only a valet came up bearing a lunch tray for her and one for Aunt Rocheter. Far below, the front door to the house continued to open and shut—the men coming and going freely while the sounds from the street grew louder, and angrier.

　　Beatrice waited until night fell and she could hear Aunt Alys snoring. Then she inched slowly, painfully down the stairs, biting her lip to keep from crying out when the pain shot up her leg. She made it all the way to the second floor before she heard another door slam close by. Beatrice leaned over the railing and saw Riccardo coming out of Gruffydd`s library.

　　"What are you doing here?" she hissed. "Have you been here all day long?"

　　Riccardo startled, and nearly fell down the stairs. He looked up and saw Beatrice, and hurried up to meet her on the steps.

　　"Oh, I am so sorry, Bea—let me just get my things and hop a boat back to Sanchia& Of course I have been here all day long!" he hissed back at her. "Where else would I be? Council is suspended while the King hears cases brought against rioters in the city. Someone spread the word that the Prince`s coach was not on the road this morning and now they`re saying he`s vanished. There`s rumors of a plot against the Prince`s life."

　　Beatrice`s eyes widened. She sat down on the stairs, not trusting her leg to hold her up. "I knew it. That must be the reason he is not already back. He must believe that someone here is lying in wait."

　　"How could you know that—you`ve been sitting here reading books for days," Riccardo sneered. "The King rounded up some of the foreigners visiting Mahaut for the wedding to have them questioned. Thank God all our knights have already left. He would have had me questioned, too, if Gruffydd hadn`t spoken for me. You have to be careful, Bea—"

　　"How much more careful could I be?" Beatrice snapped. She gestured at her leg, "I am trapped here."

　　"So am I," Riccardo snapped back. Even in the dark, Beatrice saw the fear in her brother`s face. Not since early childhood had she ever seen him look so afraid. "Bea& I thought this would be a party. I thought that you would be married and I could go home, or stay here to find myself a wife. But& we`ve come to an even more dangerous place than Father realized. If it`s not the war with Nynomath right after the wedding, then it will be war here in Ammar. King Anathas cannot live much longer—and if he has no son to succeed him&"

　　"Then we go home," Beatrice said. "Don`t we? That`s what happens if there is no marriage. We get to go home."

　　"Only if they let us leave," Riccardo said.