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something rapidly. Then just as Barbara would have turned away, she beckoned, hesitantly at first and then more surely.
    Curious, Barbara dismounted and led the mare across the strip of lawn separating the two graveled paths. “How may I serve you, Maisetra?” she asked with a carefully calculated bow.
    “I was wondering…that is, I thought it would be proper to call on my godfather. But my aunt,” she laid a hand gently on the other woman’s arm, “thought that perhaps he wasn’t receiving visitors, since he hasn’t sent cards around.”
    Barbara acknowledged the other woman with a briefer bow. She hardly looked old enough to be Margerit’s aunt. A timid-looking, willowy creature, but dressed in elegant style, not the edge of fashion that spoke of the brute force of money, rather one that stemmed from a foundation of taste and a trained eye.
    “But I thought perhaps you would know what would be best,” Margerit continued. “And so I could know to leave him in peace, if that’s what he wants. But then perhaps he doesn’t expect me to stand on ceremony and would be insulted if he hears nothing.” Her words trailed off with a trace of a frown.
    “I think the baron would be very glad to see you,” Barbara began. “Not today—he’s resting today—but soon.”
    Margerit’s frown deepened. “I hope he isn’t unwell.”
    Barbara drew a breath to answer and unexpectedly felt it catch in her throat. “He’s dying,” she blurted, then drew another more ragged breath trying to regain control. It was the first time she had admitted it even to herself.
    “Oh!” said Margerit.
    The older woman nervously interjected, “Then we shouldn’t disturb him. I told you, Margerit, you aren’t to be a bother to him.”
    “No!” Barbara protested, then hurriedly softened her words. “That is, I know he would be pleased to see you. As the poet says, In the autumn of a man’s life, the days grow short— ”
    “ —and the leaves fall suddenly ,” Margerit finished. Her face brightened with sudden pleasure. “So you know Pertulif? I’ve never liked his melancholy works, but do you know his Song of the Mountain ?”
    Barbara seized on the distraction to keep her voice from breaking and nodded. “Pertulif was born near Saveze, you know. His mountains are old friends of mine.”
    “Margerit, this is unseemly!” her aunt said sharply. So…not quite as timid as she seemed.
    Barbara looked away, trying to become invisible, as Margerit blushed at the admonition. The mare felt her tension and began tossing its head. She took the excuse. “The horse is still fresh—I shouldn’t keep it standing.” She mounted without waiting for leave. She owed no obedience to strangers. But she turned back at the last and urged, “Do come to see him. Tomorrow.” At Margerit’s promise, she pushed the mare into a trot, leaving them behind.
    The path blurred in and out. She blinked rapidly, trusting the mare not to run anyone down. He was dying. Surely she’d known it since last summer—long before that unlucky duel had chased them from Rotenek. And wasn’t it lucky instead? Here he could spend his remaining days quietly, without demanding relatives, scheming courtiers and needy supplicants. She would miss him. No, that was too weak. The solid foundation of her world would be ripped away. He had promised—little throwaway promises accumulating over the years—that when he was gone she would be her own woman. That he would see her established in the world. And more than that, there would be a name. A name to give to her parents and to take for her own if she chose. But outside those things lay a gray curtain. She had never given thought to what lay beyond and now it frightened her. A prayer formed on her lips that he be granted many more years but it felt selfish to give voice to it.
    * * *
    The moment Barbara set foot in the house she sensed the heightened bustle that accompanied a visitor. She stopped one of the footmen as