The ravens were the first thing Tuomo noticed that made him wonder. As he rode with sister Wythe’s party toward the sacred lands to find this year’s fire he kept his eye on all the creatures of the land and air they might encounter.  He was learning to follow the guidance of their spirits, learning to listen to more than just the raven totem, but now, nearly within sight of their goal, it was the ravens who commanded his attention.  He was only the first to notice, however; soon all his brothers were remarking on the number of the birds they saw rising and falling in the air ahead of them, beyond the treetops. Tuomo caught Wythe’s eye and turned his horse’s head to ride beside her.

            “What is the meaning of that?” he asked her, almost in a whisper.

            “They have found some carrion –”

            “Enough for such a crowd?”

            “I don’t think they can count portions, Tuomo,” Wythe smiled at her apprentice.  He was Irjo’s youngest son, and so precious to the old warrior that he had gained his father’s permission to learn the ways of a shaman without more than a little begging. Tuomo was always eager to see signs, though often truly more perceptive of them than even well-respected shamans, and now Wythe had to admit to herself that there really was something unusual about the number of birds ahead of them, and their excitement.  “We will know when we get there,” she told Tuomo calmly, though she felt less calm with each step forward her horse took.

            It was very early in the spring, and snow still lay in the shadows of the forest, but the open meadows were beginning to come to life with new green grasses, and the sun was strong and hot on their necks, and Wythe had felt it giving her strength each day as they had ridden. The clans had begun the spring migration, and this year it was the Raven’s turn to seek out the new spark of fire to bring to all the northern camps before Midsummer. She and Tuomo and three others of Irjo’s seemingly limitless supply of warrior sons had broken away from the main migration a week ago, and headed north and west, toward the sacred lands.

            There was no map, and Wythe had never been there, nor had any of her companions, but the way was in her head in the song that Oumua had taught her. The low hills to the south, the marshlands, then the hills to the north that they must climb to the higher meadows, then the way downhill, skirting the forest that led to the last stretch of marsh before the inlet of the northern sea. The sacred lands of the sacred fires.

            They were in the high meadows now, and there was the forest before them, where the ravens were flying and squabbling – just beyond that, with their first view of the marsh and the sea beyond, they would find the fire that burned in the ground, where shamans for generations had lighted the spark that would supply hearth fires for the next year, beginning with the great Midsummer fire.

            “Do we need to go through the forest, or around it?” Tuomo asked Wythe.

            “Skirt it, according to Oumua – but I think we should see what those ravens are fighting over.”  She knew that Tuomo and his brothers were all curious, and so was she, though her curiosity was becoming edged with apprehension.

            So they rode directly into the forest – there were no trails, but it was a fairly old stand of trees, so the trunks did not crowd them, and the last summer’s undergrowth was not very thick. Sunlight shafted through the boughs of the evergreens, and a pair of emerald green hummingbirds darted along before them for awhile, brightening into brilliance as they encountered the rays. They could no longer see the ravens, but they could hear them.

            As the cries of the birds grew louder, the horses became distinctly jittery – most unusual for these stolid ponies, and Wythe gripped her mount tighter with her knees, and leaned over its neck to murmur in its ear soothingly.  There was a faint unpleasant smell on the air – like wet wool, but sharper – the smell of flesh that had rotted almost to total decay – and then they came into a clearing, and the ravens ascended before them with their great wings thrumming audibly, and they saw what had attracted them.

            There was a heap of animal carcasses in the center of the clearing – or what remained of the carcasses – mostly bones with only a little rotten flesh clinging to them.  Some were scattered away from the pile, and Tuomo and his brother Mika swung down from their ponies to look at them.  “Marked by teeth – dragged about by wolves or bears in their feeding,” Mika said. “But marked by knives also.  Someone has been hunting here.”

            “But no one of the people.” Tuomo said softly, looking a little sick.  Wythe saw that all her companions were becoming frightened, and she knew why. Someone had been hunting in forbidden lands, and made mere waste of the flesh of the animals he had killed.  No one of the Telmi would ever do that – but no stranger should be permitted here, and trespass alone was a grave spiritual danger.

            “They made camp here, too, whoever they were,” Wythe said, pointing to the charred remnants of a fire to one side of the clearing, and the trampled grass around it.

            “And went south – with a sledge,” Mika followed the path of crushed plants and slashed saplings a little way into the forest.  “They have cut trees wherever they stood in the way of passage, and left the timber lying.”

            Wythe dismounted briskly, and began to rummage in her saddle bags.  “Tuomo, gather tinder.  We have work to do here.”

            While Wythe and her apprentice prepared for a cleansing and atonement ritual, Mika, Juhto, and Turpu went in different directions into the forest, looking for further signs of the trespasser. By the time Tuomo had a fire kindled, in a fresh place on the opposite side of the clearing from the intruder’s campfire, his brothers had come back.

            “I found the remnants of snares in several places,” Juhto said, showing Wythe a handful of leather cords. She was looking through the pile of bones, holding her kerchief over her nose and mouth. “What kinds of animals did he kill?” Juhto asked her.

            “Mostly marten, perhaps fox – and – I think a bear cub. Squirrels too.”  Wythe shook her head and turned and walked away from the carnage quickly, and tied the kerchief around her hair again.

            “Who would do such a thing?” asked Turpu.

            “Not one of the people,” Tuomo said again and everyone nodded.

            “A man of the south has been here,” Wythe said with grim conviction.  “And after we have made atonement and cleaned this place, we must find him.”

            The ritual came first – an offering to the fire of herbs, and then the burning of the cords that Juhto had found, and of some of the bones of the animals, while Wythe and Tuomo chanted to their spirits, and the ravens flew from tree to tree above them.  Then the brothers and Wythe all worked together to gather as much dry brush as they could, and wove it in among the piled bones, and then set the brush afire, and kept on feeding the flames with more brush, until all the flesh was burned and the bones well-charred.  Then they used their knives to cut and dig a pit in the earth, and buried what was left of the bones.  Only when all traces of slaughter had been removed did Wythe give the sign to bury the ashes of their own little fire, and mount again, and follow the trail of the intruder.

            Pieter Sevren and his two Toler companions had been traveling south for two days, across the empty rolling hills west of the road to the Tolmyn, when one of his guides first noticed that a party of horsemen was following them.

            “They are coming at some speed, sir – as though they mean to overtake us,” the man reported, and Pieter, looking back to the north, could see them too, just cresting a hill, and raising some dust from the dry meadow as they galloped. Five mounted men, apparently.  Pieter considered for a moment, then made his decision.

            “Let us wait for them, and see what they want.”  He was a little worried that this might mean trouble – he had consulted no one about this excursion, and he knew that there was a royal directive that any southern visitors to Telmi lands should announce themselves to the nearest elders.  “Seek permission” actually, though none in the last ten years had been known to refuse it.  Still, how much trouble could five herdsmen on their ponies be?  He would make his apologies, give them a few knives or something, and all would be well.

            So he rode up to the two-deer team that pulled his sledge, and took hold of the near animal’s halter, and stopped them, then turned to watch the approach of the horsemen.

            Matters began to look a little different as the horsemen approached.  For one thing, one was a woman – young, small of stature, riding her horse astride so that her short deerskin dress was hitched up to her knees.  Her dark, curly hair was cut short, like the hair of her male companions, and there was a bow like theirs slung on her back, and a knife on her belt. But three of the men also wore swords, and as they approached Pieter could see that the weapons were of Vaaselian forging.

            So this was Maga Wythe, he thought to himself. He had never seen her, though he had heard all the legends.  When she had been in Essin as a diplomat, he had been wasting his youth on his father’s miserable estate, and trying to find an escape into a better station. Thank the gods he had found it in his studies, and the patronage of the Paarin. Well, she was a rather attractive woman – not exactly pretty, with that short nose and wild hair, but she had a fine if slender figure, and a very fine leg between the top of her short Vaaselian boot and the hem of the deerskin tunic. Something had made young Lord Maarinen throw away his future in Vaaseli for her sake – though to all accounts he had made the best of that too.  Some people just had advantages, Pieter supposed – from the gods or something.

            “Greetings,” Pieter called out affably as soon as he judged the party was in earshot.  But they rode on at full speed, with the woman leading, until they were only a few yards from the sledge, and then pulled up their mounts abruptly, so that dust puffed up from under the ponies’  hooves.

            “Who are you, and what are you doing in these lands?” Maga Wythe gasped a little, Pieter noticed, from the exertion of the gallop, and he couldn’t help noticing her bosom heaving beneath the deerskin – wonderful leatherwork, really, tanned as soft and smooth as butter, and the color of winter butter too.  It was a rude greeting, Pieter considered, though spoken in high Vaaselian, with a fine accent.

            “My name is Pieter Sevren.  I am a naturalist, ma’am, on an excursion to collect specimens.”

            “You have come from the forest to the north, near the sea-marsh.  We have been following your trail since yesterday afternoon, and I think I know what kind of specimens you have collected.”  Pieter couldn’t fail to notice the contempt and anger in Wythe’s voice and her expression, and he saw that he would have to say something to placate her.

            “I am sorry that I could find none of your elders to inform of my plans –”

            “You would find none in this region.  No one comes here, except –” she hesitated for an instant.  “No one comes here.”

            “Well, I did not know that – I did not know whose permission to seek.”

            “There would be no permission.  What are you going to do with those skins you have taken?” The maga gestured to the men behind her, and they all dismounted and went to the sledge and pulled the deer hide cover from the sledge’s cargo.

            “Stuff and mount them, ma’am, to exhibit to scholars in Vaaseli.”

            To his surprise Maga Wythe bowed her head at that, seemingly in sorrow, and he saw her make a little sign with the fingers of her right hand over her heart.  When she looked up again the anger was back however.

            “Do you really not realize what you have done, Pieter Sevren?”  She spoke his name like a curse. “No, I see you do not.”  She shook her head slowly. “There is a wood to the east, and there should be water there, and a place to camp.  We will go there, and I will inform you.”

            Timu found his wife and the prince enjoying a typical Vaaselian lunch of sausage and cheese and dark bread when he returned to the palace, and they made a place for him at the table in the sitting room.

            “Where have you been this morning?” Wythe asked him as she passed him a plate and Renhold poured him a glass of wine.

            “Only walking about the city.  I went to look at our ship, and then I stopped at the grammar school to look in on Elian and Mother.  They were having a wonderful time – this afternoon, Elian tells me, there will be a skating party for the children.”  He gave Wythe a serious look. “Many are the sons and daughters of guild masters, and their fathers will likely be there for a little while at least.  It could be a good opportunity. They will be thinking of the benefits of Renhold’s rule –”

            “And inclined to listen to our point of view,”   Wythe finished her husband’s thought.“I would love to go, if you will go with me.”

The air was still and cold, but the last of the afternoon sun shed a warm glow on the city’s stone-walled terraces.  The sounds of the skating party were clearly audible as soon as Timu and Wythe stepped outside of the castle walls, though the public rink was several levels down the hillside.  The way was as familiar to Wythe as to Timu, from her long years of thought-travel to the mind of her friend Aulia, and he was amused that in her eagerness to join the party she soon outpaced him.  He let her lead the way between the high banks of snow the city’s gardeners had shoveled up on either side of every path, but he kept his hand on her arm in case her foot might strike a patch of ice. Since leaving Elian and his mother at the grammar school that morning he had had a vague sense of unease about Wythe – about her health or safety.  He had long ago learned that his premonitions could be quite reliable, but they were also irritatingly difficult to define and interpret. Now he wondered if he perceived a threat to her form their political opposition, or a new stage in her pregnancy that might result in illness or discomfort, or some accident that might be about to happen.

But he knew that if he showed concern it would displease her. Since they had begun to live together anything that might restrict her independence, even advice to caution, had seemed more than ever unwelcome. But he could watch out for her needs and safety in silence and provide for them discreetly.

So, with his hand on her elbow, Timu followed Wythe down the blue-shadowed terraces to the wide courtyard of the Temple Square, flooded now to form a smooth sheet of ice for the citizens of Essin to take their winter recreation. The snow from the paths bordering the square was pushed up into steep banks the height of a man’s shoulder, with entrances carefully carved at intervals, and through these the pair could see the flash of bright woolen clothing as the children of the city skated around in pairs and clusters and long chains, laughing and shouting. Standing in groups around the ice, or sitting on wooden benches, parents and older brothers and sisters watched and indulged in Essin’s year-round recreation, gossip.

“I see Elian, and Mother,” Timu told Wythe as they entered the rink and began to skirt its edges. At the head of the square, immediately in front of the wide portico of the Temple, the Maarinen women were stationed beside a team of servants tending two large, steaming kettles, one of hot apple cider and one of oil to cook small round cakes, which were fished out in wire baskets and sprinkled with sugar. The children, appetites stimulated by exercise, lined up to receive them; the older ones were careful to drop Elian a bow or curtsey when they skated up for their refreshments, but she greeted all alike with the same friendly smile as she handed them their tin cups of cider. One little girl in the cluster around the ladies suddenly put down her cup, and skated out across the ice toward them, her chestnut braids flying.

“Uncle Timu! Uncle Timu!”

The little princess Berte collided with her uncle’s legs and he picked her up off her feet in a hug. “Give your Aunt Wythe a kiss,” he said, swinging her around and down to Wythe’s level.  “Remember: ‘Aunt’ now, not ‘Maga.’” Berte planted a shy kiss on Wythe’s cheek and submitted to one from her aunt in return as Timu set her back down on the ice.

“Come get some skates,” she ordered them, taking them both by the hand and beginning to pull. “Come skate with me!”

“No, little bear,” Timu told her, holding her back by her braids. “We have grown-up business here today – we will play together tomorrow.”

“Business,” Berte pouted.  Wythe bent down and whispered in her ear, “I would much rather skate, but he won’t let me,” and she made her own face at Timu.

“Uncle Timu is mean – but we will make him let you tomorrow!” and Berte gave Timu a pinch on his leg that made him cry out and release her braids, and she skated away laughing.

“The little devil.” Timu smiled and rubbed the place on his thigh the princess had pinched.

“No worse than you at that age, I’ll bet,” said Wythe, taking his arm.

“A great deal better.  I was rather sullen when I was six – if a grown-up spoke to me, I just scowled. Be careful, dear,” he added, as they picked their way across the ice between the raucous little skaters. Wythe held his arm more tightly, to show how careful she was being.

            “You persuaded Wythe to join our little party,” Elian called out as they approached.

            “I wouldn’t want to miss it.”  Wythe gave both her in-laws kisses on the cheek, and took a cup of cider from Elian. “I wish we could skate too, but really we were hoping to see some old acquaintances, and have a little conversation.”

            Elian frowned a little. “Probably best not to skate, and risk a fall, just now, I think.”  Wythe missed the frown, as she was scanning the collection of observers around the rink for familiar faces, and didn’t seem to hear the princess’ comment, but Timu caught his sister’s eye, and the look in it, and nodded, and clasped Wythe’s arm protectively.

            “Is the master of the Printers’ Guild here?  We nearly collided with his older son out there – He would be worth speaking to –” Timu added in thought to his wife.

            “Yes, he’s here – I see him,” Wythe said, nodding toward a group of three men, dressed in fur hats and coats, standing in the sun on the north side of the square. “And with the master of the Shipwrights’.”  Her smile was so enthusiastic that Timu couldn’t help but feel her optimism might be justified.  His sister and brother had strong ties with the printers, after all, and he and Wythe both had reason to be familiar with the shipwrights.

            “You mean to begin your project here and now?” Elian asked, and neither one could miss the disapproval in her voice.

            “We are only going to speak to them – give them greetings of the season,” Timu reassured her, already guiding Wythe toward their object, but keeping carefully to the snowy border of the rink, instead of striking out across the ice.

            The shipwright, Master Linder, had already spotted Timu, and was hailing him. “Lord Maarinen,” he took his hat off and bowed slightly, and the other two men followed his example, “and Lady Maarinen.  Let me welcome you home, and congratulate you both.” He took Wythe’s gloved hand and gave it a kiss. “The perpetuation of your house is more than a personal joy – it is a service to our nation.” The printer, Master Maunua, and the third man also took Wythe’s hand, and smiled and nodded to show their approval of Master Linder’s sentiments.

            “Truly, our return was so that we might serve our people,” Timu replied.

            “But it too is a personal pleasure,” Wythe added.

            “And you sailed in that little ship all the way from Ravella?” asked Master Maunua.  “Rather a daring enterprise, my lady.”

            “I had every reason to have confidence in my husband’s design, and in the crew he chose to serve him.  It was a wonderful voyage – and we cut the best time of any ship, Ravellan or Vaaselian, by nearly a week.”

            “I have been to take a look at her, and she is lovely – but small for the open sea, and not suited for much cargo,” said Master Linder.

“I am no longer a merchant, however,” Timu said, smiling, “so cargo is not a consideration.” 

“A nobleman’s pleasure craft then?” asked the third man, adding, “Forgive me – I am Jarvin Hokula – a printer.” 

Timu nodded and grasped the printer’s hand. “The design is meant to enhance speed and maneuverability – it was my thought to develop something suitable to the pursuit of corsairs, or perhaps to serve as transport for people only rather than goods – to put in the service of the Alliance.”

“The transport of diplomats,” Linder said thoughtfully.  “And is the Alliance thinking of patrolling the seas now?”

“It is something I have suggested. It would be better than expecting every merchant ship to carry its own guardsmen.”

“A typical Maarinen – full of new ideas,” said Master Maunua, chuckling.

“And what did your father think of the Light of the North, my lady?” Linder asked Wythe.

“Timu gave him copies of the plans, and the Ravellan shipyards will soon be working on their own version.”

“Well, that is a seal of approval – that and the fact that Martel Weaver was willing to let his only daughter sail on her.”

All the while that they exchanged these pleasantries Wythe was aware of both Master Hokula’s eyes and mind regarding her particularly. It was not unusual for a non-diplomat to possess natural telepathic ability, but this young man seemed to have some training that would normally be available only in the service school – but he was scarcely young enough to have been included in the reforms to admission that had been put into effect with Maga Katya’s appointment as head of service. Wythe decided that the best course was to meet his mind with her own quite frankly, rather than attempt any concealment. If his ability were sufficient, she should be able to address his thoughts without establishing a formal link.

“You have unusual skills, for a printer, Master Hokula.”

“You do not disapprove, I think, Lady Maarinen.”

“As long as you don’t take unfair advantage.”

“I hope I know better than to take advantage of a lady. Not that anyone could easily have the advantage of Maga Wythe.”

Wythe realized that engaging in this badinage was distracting her from the conversation between Timu and the two guild leaders, though she kept up the appearance of giving it her external attention.  Determining Master Hokula’s intentions would have to wait for another occasion.

“I am only Lady Wythe Maarinen now,” she communicated with what she hoped was an air of finality, and deliberately turned her mind from the young printer and back to Timu and what he was saying.

“There are many other matters in which the Alliance could serve our nation, and all nations, more effectively, if it makes full use of the powers granted in its charter.  It is in the interest of the people of Vaaseli to encourage such action – for the sake of both peace and prosperity.”

“But might that not result in infringement of our sovereignty?” Master Hokula asked immediately.

“Every power of the Alliance is designed to serve the people of our various nations – where sovereignty aligns with justice there will be no conflicts,” Timu replied.

“That will be an interesting point of view to hear expressed in the Council of Lords,” Master Linder said wryly. “I would not be too sure of its reception even in the Guild Council.”

“It depends on how it’s presented, and by whom, surely,” Wythe said. “I believe Prince Renhold and King Hendric tend toward Timu’s position,” she added.

“And who should judge sovereignty if not the sovereign?” Master Maunua laughed. “I can see that life will be more interesting with the return of Lord and Lady Maarinen.”

“You have particular issues in mind, I think, when you speak of seeking Alliance guidance – or intervention,” Master Hokula pursued.

“The Telmi issue, naturally, Master Hokula,” Wythe returned boldly. She felt no impulse of restraint from Timu’s mind, and went forward with her ideas directly. “How to handle relations with the Telmi is of utmost importance to every interest group in Vaaseli, but many of the crucial issues really fall under Alliance jurisdiction.”

“Are the Telmi a sovereign nation then, to have their disputes with other peoples decided by Alliance Council?” Jarvin Hokula plainly understood at least this important point of the situation. If the Telmi had sovereign status, then all use of telekinesis, even in ritual, would be forbidden to them.

Wythe shook her head emphatically. “Even without the rights of sovereignty, their right to protect their way of life and their religion is clearly a concern of the Alliance. But we in Vaaseli may be able to resolve our conflicts through negotiation, and forestall a need for Alliance intervention.”

“Though strict definitions of Telmi rights should still be pursued within the structure of the Alliance,” Timu added.

“But if the land on which they live is part of Vaaseli, then the nation as a whole has some rights to its produce,” Hokula persisted.

This was a perfect example of the kinds of arguments they would face in both of Vaaseli’s Councils, Wythe realized, and an excellent opportunity to practice their own responses. She wondered if Hokula espoused the position he was arguing, or was merely playing devil’s advocate: she could detect no particular commitment in his mind to what he said, one way or another.

“The rights of all parties concerned have to be balanced, and their cases represented fairly,” replied Timu.

“And I am sure we will endeavor to do so, in our Council,” said Master Linder. “Of course we take an intense interest in the discoveries in the north – there may be many practical applications – but we would not wish to perpetrate injustice.”  There was the unspoken thought in all their minds, Wythe felt sure, that the Council of Lords might not be able to provide such an assurance.

“But the Council will not sit until near the spring equinox, and at the moment we are supposed to be celebrating a festival – though I am sure we will return to this subject whenever we meet –” Maunua began, and Linder took up his colleague’s thread.

“And I know we will all remember what we spoke of this afternoon. But now I fear I must collect my sons – their mother will expect our return soon, for supper.”

“We will see you at the castle for the Solstice feast?” Wythe asked the three guildsmen.

The guild masters nodded affably, but Hokula shook his head.  “I am afraid I have not sufficient status to be extended an invitation.”

Timu and Wythe shared a quick glance, and a wordless communication.  “I will ask my sister to rectify that situation, Master Hokula, and invite you as our personal friend,” Timu spoke up quickly.  “I know that Wythe would like to engage you in further conversation.” Wythe smiled and nodded.

“And I would enjoy that opportunity also.  In fact, I have a business proposition I would like to discuss with you, my lady.” Jarvin Hokula refrained from elaborating, but bowed first to Wythe and then to Timu. “I thank you for your courtesy and your friendship, and I look forward to our next meeting.  Linder, Maunua,” he turned to his colleagues with a nod for each, and then set out for the nearest exit in the snow bank.

“He is a rather forward young man,” said Master Maunua, “but very able.  At the age of twenty-five he was already his father’s full partner. I hear he has some rather unusual ideas to apply in his shop – but if you two befriend him you will soon hear all about that.  I think he is actively seeking your patronage.”

“We will certainly give him a hearing,” Timu assured the guild master. 

Master Linder was already trawling the shoals of skaters for his sons, three of them, in three different sizes, and he waved a farewell as he successfully brought them under tow.

“And now I should retrieve my own family,” said Master Maunua.  “We will meet tomorrow evening, at the feast.”  He gave the young couple a bow and picked his way cautiously across the ice, scanning the swirling crowd for his children.

“Jarvin Hokula was scanning your mind, was he not?” Timu said as he took Wythe’s arm.

“Yes, and with unusual skill – we were able to communicate without a link, as well. He has strong natural ability, but I’m also certain someone has been training him.”

“There has always been some surreptitious mind-work among the common people – Elian made use of it among the castle servants before – her marriage to Renhold.”

“Dovan told me that Corbit was one of her operatives.”

“The service hall porter?  That I did not know.  Does he still have his position?”

“I believe he retired a few years ago.  But I know that Dovan found his services quite useful during the siege of the service hall.”

Both Timu and Wythe fell silent as they made their way back to Elian and Lady Berte, lost in memories of the crisis that had first brought them together.  Timu felt that his days of spying for Elian on the ruthless chancellor, Lord Valmur, had nearly cost him his sanity, and he had only preserved it through his attachment to Wythe, and now he drew her closer to his side automatically.  Together they had defied the usurper, and with Renhold’s other allies, defeated him; together they could surely overcome their present difficulties. Wythe’s thoughts were of the larger web of events that those days were connected with – in many ways they were still caught in that web.  She and Timu had a power in those days that they could no longer call on – that power itself was now a part of their problems. But she clung to her husband’s arm, and felt that she still drew strength from him.

The skating party was breaking up, and Wythe and Timu preceded the rest of the family back to the palace.  Wythe would have been glad to stay and skate, but Timu, at a severe look from Elian, put her off.

“There is something I have to show you back in our chambers.  You will want to see it before dinner,” he told her, with the kind of smile that strongly affected her imagination.  So she went with him happily enough, again outpacing him in the climb back to the castle.

Marina was in the sitting room when they returned, on a stool near the window, occupying herself with some mending, and she got to her feet as soon as Timu opened the door, and dropped a curtsey.  “There are parcels, my lord –” she began, but Timu nodded and shushed her.  “Take my lady’s wraps, please,” he said, shrugging off his own cloak and removing his hat, dropping them on a chair and immediately going into the bedchamber.  After a minute, as Wythe attempted to settle her hair, he came out and beckoned her, making a broad gesture to usher her into the room. “We knew you would not think of it,” he said, “so Mother and I have taken steps to improve your wardrobe.”

On the bed were several large paper-wrapped parcels, and Wythe could scarcely decide which one to open.  It was true that she gave little thought to how she dressed, but it had always been a pleasure to have something new – when she was a girl her mother had often surprised her in this way, and it was a gesture of love that she understood immediately.  Timu saw her hesitation, and began undoing string and tearing paper, and soon all the new finery was strewn across the coverlet. He picked up a dark red velvet gown and held it up against his own torso.

“We saw that the trousseau your mother provided was becoming – a little strained. And Helde remembered the name of the dressmaker you once used in Essin – she still had your measurements, and I felt I knew your tastes, so we corresponded, and –”

Wythe was gazing at the dress that Timu held before him.  “It looks like –”

“The one you wore to the royal reception, when you first came to Essin – I sent the seamstress a drawing, but I am relieved that she was able to match the color from only my description – the dark heart of a red rose, is what I told her.”

“But it’s different.”  Wythe took a fold of material from the front of the dress between her fingers.

“We asked her to make it – a bit generous.  You have been undergoing some – development – in the frontal area.”

“You speak of me like some ship –”

Timu laughed, tossing the dress into her arms.  “No, I would say 'expansion of your bow' –” and Wythe snatched up some of the crumpled paper to throw at him.  He dodged it, and in a quick movement grasped her wrist and drew her to him for a playful kiss, but play soon turned to passion, so that when Marina, on the other side of the open doorway, cleared her throat and asked, “Will there be anything else, my lady?”  Wythe could only gasp, “No, you may go –” before Timu had swept both dresses and wrappings to the floor, and his wife onto the bed.