Mouse’s exhaustion had been replaced by a sudden feverish desire to run back to her rooms, tear open the letter which she stuffed inside of a book and buried at the bottom of a trunk, and study its contents, this time under the illumination of Sir Hugo’s revelation.

Upon inquiry, he had explained to Mouse something she otherwise was not like to have to realized, no matter how long she labored to, namely that Adalbert’s scythe was a term used to refer to the moon as it formed a thin but distinguishable crescent in the night sky and the day upon which this occurred. In other words, it was a date, whichever one happened to coincide with the third day of the moon’s cycle of rebirth.

The term had been derived from the story of Adalbert, the man who laboriously filled and emptied the shining silver lake that was the moon bucket by bucket, night by night. It was by no means a phrase commonly used; in fact, Mouse had never heard it before in all her life. Instead, it had emerged within the Arosian military, as it was unlike to be understood by anyone unfamiliar with the legend, providing a certain level of secrecy. And in a place like Pothes Mar, so dominated by military men, it had fallen into common use.

Upon reflection, Mouse wondered whether her dream beneath the sycamore had not hinted at this, however curiously, but she was nonetheless certain that she was not like to have come to the conclusion had it not been for Sir Hugo’s instruction.

For a brief moment, the thought occurred to Mouse that the letter might have reached her by mistake, but there could be no mistake: it had been delivered directly into her hand.

It was curious to her that the Empress should choose a communication thus characterized, lying so far, as it were, out of Mouse’s grasp. Could she really have credited her with possessing such knowledge?

But stranger still to Mouse was her own excitement in translating the enigmatic contents of the letter. It had confused and irked her beforeq, but now she found a kind of thrill in attempting to unravel its meaning. Perhaps, she wondered, she had been too long away from the capital, too long free of Ludger’s incessant questioning and prodding, and her mind, now given free rein to do as it pleased, longed for its old familiar torments.

However, Mouse was given little occasion to dwell further on the matter, for before she had even reached her rooms, she was met by the same curly-headed page who had come to her earlier that day.

“Your Majesty,” the boy bowed.

Mouse gave him a reluctant smile. She was not certain she was prepared to forgive him for neglecting to convey a very important piece of information on his last visit. Seeing as how he stood between her and her chambers, however, she supposed she had little choice but to hear him.

“My master requests the favor of your company,” the boy said, “that is, if it pleases Your Majesty.”

Mouse raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“Certainly you cannot mean now,” she said.

“Indeed, Your Majesty,” the boy replied. “I was asked to carry word to you the moment you came in.”

Mouse looked first to her guard for some sort of excuse that might be conjured and then down at her dirty gown. She smelled like she had slept in a stable and could not imagine she looked much more favorably.

Nevertheless, if the General had relented in his attempts to evade her, it was not an opportunity she could allow herself to waste.

“Very well,” she sighed at last. “I will come at once. But I must insist that I am at least given time to change my dress.” She gave the boy a wry smile. “That is, unless your master prefers the stench of horse to that of woman.”

“As Your Majesty wishes,” the boy said, once again bowing, and as Mouse took leave to go into her rooms and dress, “I await Your Majesty’s convenience.”

Mouse found herself vaguely disheartened that the General had chosen such an inopportune time to entertain an audience with her. She had been looking forward to soaking in a warm tub of herbs and washing away the offensive odor that clung to her hair and skin, to having a warm dinner brought to her bedside before falling asleep with the Empress’s letter in her hand in the hopes that it might conjure some revelatory dream.

But alas, duty demanded that she see the man she had been sent to exercise her task upon.

“Do not wait for me,” she said to the maids after they had helped her into a long linen tunic and thereafter a shorter one fashioned out of blue silk. “See that you eat something, and be certain that Lady Agatha does not go wandering about the place without a guard.”

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Lady Agatha had gone with Lady Signy when the party had separated, but Mouse was not keen on the idea of the girl making herself known in Pothes Mar any more than she was certain to have already. She was far too young and beautiful to escape notice, and too foolish to be trusted to herself. And whether Lady Signy was more likely to curb or compound this effect, Mouse certainly could not say. As such, she had sent Bo and a couple other of her own men with the girl, in the hopes of deterring any potential prospects, and in the least, protecting her against doing anything truly unwise.

When Mouse was satisfied with her preparations, or at least to the extent that she might be, pressed as she was to hasten to the General, she once again left her rooms and followed the page down the cavernous halls of the keep. On the way, she took what chance she could to peek out of any open window they passed, in the hopes of catching sight of the moon. But as it was, she could not make it out; the sky was still painted a dull, greyish shade of violet, and the stars themselves had not yet risen.

As they continued down the hall toward where the General awaited her, Mouse felt a pit begin to form in her stomach. She found herself remembering the cold informality of her initial reception, the General’s exacting gaze and unimpressive demeanor. Could it be, she wondered, that he knew she was not in fact the Empress? Could he have known somehow from the very beginning that she was little more than some inconsequential child of court sent as a form of distraction? It would certainly explain his lack of deference and determination to insult her; he would no doubt consider it a grave insult to himself and his estate.

Mouse suddenly wished she could turn back, to run into her room, jump into bed, and pull the covers over her head until it was time to return to Kriftel. Though she had only just arrived at Pothes Mar, she already found that she was ready to leave.

What had she been thinking to imagine that she could fool the General? What had the Empress been thinking? To appear in the window of a carriage was one thing, to smile out from the steps of a keep or exchange small words with some foreign dignitary who had likely never so much as seen a portrait of the Empress. But to conduct a private interview with a lord as powerful as Ralist whose ladywife was practically an intimate of the Empress—it was absurd.

Mouse had been given charge of discussing with General Ralist some issues regarding local riparian rights. Apparently water disputes were of great concern the area. However, she now found herself wondering how important it could possibly be if the Empress herself could not be bothered to come and the General had not instead sought her in the capital.

Was it too late, Mouse wondered, to call the meeting off? Perhaps she could complain of a tender stomach or a sudden fit of fatigue.

But before she could devise a satisfactory means of escape, Mouse found herself outside the room to which she had been called. They were now in the northern part of the keep, far from Mouse’s own rooms, and while the halls had grown busier along their way, the one which they had turned down last was all but empty.

When she entered, Mouse found herself in a medium-sized room, simply albeit not untastefully furnished and smelling of smoke and roasted meats. The walls were largely bare, with one bearing a landscape of the region and another a tapestry of the famed Yarmen’s battle, a favorite subject of artists in this part of the country. The room was fitted with dark furnishings, central of which was a round table that stood in the middle of the room.

The table, Mouse observed, had already been set with trenchers, and she saw now that the sideboard was the source of the aromas that wafted toward her, filling her nose with mouthwatering smells. It had been laid with a variety of game meats, and next to these was a hearty vat of bean stew and bread and butter. Soldiers food, Mouse thought to herself, as she surveyed the scene.

It was in this briefest of moments that Mouse had forgotten her host, and it was with a sense of both surprise and unexpected relief that she now watched him rise to greet her.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “I am most gratified that you have chosen to accept my invitation. I hope I have not disturbed any previous plans you might have formed or inconvenienced you in any way.”

Mouse allowed a small smile to form upon her lips.

Though she was relieved to learn that the evening would not be quite what she dreaded it might, it was with no small degree of perturbation that she thought of the page. The boy would need to seek his calling elsewhere, she mused, for it certainly did not lie in the art of conveyance. Twice now he had failed her, and she did not wish to see what disaster might await on the third.

“Not in the least, sir,” Mouse said, accepting a seat at the table opposite her host. His eyes, she found, were softened by the dim light of the candles, and the intimacy of the setting removed some of the edge from his previous formality.

The pit of dread in Mouse’s stomach had now dissolved into little more than a rumbling hunger urged on by the aromatic courses set before them upon the table—that and a vague sense of curiosity as to why she might have been called. She wished to study the man’s face, to see if there was not some hint there as to his intentions, but she found it difficult to do so, seeing as his own gaze was already penetrating her.

It was not discomforting, the way he looked at her, thought Mouse, but it was perhaps a bit awkward to meet his eye under so close an inspection. So instead, she busied herself by studying his finely woven red tunic, the silver stitching along the sleeves, the way the fabric hugged his shoulders.

Now here is a man for Agatha, she thought. He is old enough to have survived the folly of youth without being so old as to be fatherly. He is experienced enough to have won the favor of his lord without the appearance of being jaded. And he is handsome enough to win a lady’s favor without being so handsome as to believe he owes the world little else.

Mouse accepted a cup from the servant, turning it in her hand to admire the dark burgundy wine that painted the inside of it.

“To your health,” the man across her said, raising his cup in a toast.

Mouse let her eyes linger on him a moment longer before lifting her own cup.

“And to yours, Sir Conrad.”