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over with his hawk soon.”
    Torre’s lips twisted in the cynical grin that she had come to dread. “Right. And Alienor?” he added, his face averted as he bent to gather the mare’s reins. “Did she send me greetings, too?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on in a voice that sounded almost unconcerned, “What about that fellow she married? What’s he like?”
    “Young. A bit vain. But then—” She’d been about to say that Lord Cerdic had plenty to be vain about, being not only young and comely, but rich into the bargain, but something in her brother’s face halted her. “Oh, Torre,” she said, “you’re not still brooding about Alienor, are you?”
    “Brooding?” His eyes were hooded as he raised the wineskin once again.
    “I know you were disappointed, but there are other heiresses. Not so rich as Alienor, perhaps, but—”
    “Is that what you think it was? Her gold? God, what a fool you are sometimes.” Before Elaine could respond, he sighed and touched her shoulder. “That was wrong of me. I’m sorry.”
    “I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to
do
something.”
    “What? Go out to seek my fortune? Oh, no, I tried that, didn’t I? Mayhap I should till the fields myself! Or no,” he said savagely, glaring down at his leg, “I’d be no use there, either.” All at once, his anger seemed to die. He sighed and ran a hand through his tangled curls. “Sometimes I think our family has been cursed. No, don’t smile, I’m serious.When you look at all that’s happened—the Saxons coming, Mother’s death, Father and his—”
    Elaine held up a hand, stilling him before he could say the word they never spoke. He sighed again. “Father’s
illness
,” he went on, using the accepted phrase, “and then me. Don’t tell me you’ve never wondered if all of this is more than luck.”
    Of course Elaine had wondered. The same question had occurred to her many times during the past winter, in the dark of night when sleep refused to come. But if she had refused to credit the thought then, she was not about to now.
    “There is naught amiss with us that a bit of hard work and common sense won’t cure,” she said stoutly.
    “Think you so, Elly? Truly?”
    “Blaming a series of perfectly natural misfortunes on magic is the refuge of the weak and cowardly.”
    Torre gave her a wry grin. “If your tongue gets any sharper, ’twill be a very gelding hook. But you are wrong, you know. Magic does exist, and to deny it won’t make it go away.”
    “Stuff and—” Elaine began.
    “Elly!”
    They both whirled as their younger brother crossed the courtyard at a run. Their father followed more slowly, his head bent over something in his hands, no doubt some scroll or parchment. Lord Pelleas’s patched robe hung loosely about his sparse frame, and his hose had been darned so many times with different threads that their original color was impossible to guess. White locks floated in sparse wisps about his long, narrow face as he looked up; he brushed at them impatiently with his free hand and smiled with a piercing sweetness. Elaine noticed that he had an ink blot on his nose.
    “Elly!” Lavaine called again, his face aglow beneath hiscap of blazingly red curls. He caught her in a hard embrace and smiled down at her. When had he grown so tall?
    “Elaine! I think I’ve got it!” Lord Pelleas cried, brandishing a sheaf of parchments. “Damnedest thing—right under my nose the whole time, and I didn’t see it until last night, when—”
    “Did you catch a noble suitor?” Lavaine interrupted.
    Elaine sighed. “No, I did not.”
    “Fools,” Lavaine said loyally, “but never mind, I’m sure you will in time. Listen, can you—”
    “What does this look like to you?” Pelleas demanded, pointing out a word. “Because I think—by God, I really think I’m on to it at last. See here—”
    “Elaine!” Lavaine tugged at her elbow. “My jupon is torn. Can you mend it for