Anwyn Bird did not soften. Her arms remained clamped to her chest. "Anywhere is better than here. You should have seen yourself the other night—you could barely speak you were so afraid. And yes, it was just a bruise and bruises heal. But what about next time? When a man shows himself capable of violence it is seldom the end of it. He has cowed you, Raina. Frightened you and made you shrink back. lf you step out of line he will do it again. Stannig Beade is no clan guide and must be shown as such. We are many. We can send him back to Scarpe."

Almost Anwyn won her over, but the memory of what had happened in the greathearth was too raw. Stannig Beade, Mace Blackhail: Scarpes had sharp tongues. You could not win against them in spoken battle. It was true Hailsmen still outnumbered Scarpes in this house, but for clansmen to back the ousting of Beade they needed to believe Raina's version of events. Raina did not think she had the skills to persuade them. Certainly she had no evidence.

Anwyn saw the answer on her face. "After supper tonight I will go see Orwin Shank."

Raina felt prickles of tears behind her eyes and did not know why. She said, "You will not be rid of Beade so easily,"

"Do not be so sure." The words were spoken so fiercely they created their own sense of gravity. Raina felt her heart and mind pull toward them, but stood firm. Having issued them Anwyn herself seemed incapable of further speech. Nodding with satisfaction, she turned on her heels and left.

Raina waited for herself to relax; waited but the sensation did not come. She looked around the widows' wall, at the carelessly placed looms and benches, the Scarpe filth. I should do something about cleaning this place up. The new widows deserve better. She did not want to be here though, and followed Anwyn's tracks to the door. Random thoughts were firing in her head. She wondered what use a great big cast iron candleholder was to anyone without a high-ceilinged chamber to hang it. She worried she had parted badly with Anwyn.

As she headed downstairs it occurred to her that the least she could have done was open all the shutters in the widows' hearth and let in some fresh air to drive out the stench of Scarpe. What had Stannig Beade told her? "Restrict your activities to caring for the bereaved and the sick"? Raina slowed her descent. He had meant to offend her with small work and she had allowed herself be offended. Since when had caring for the widows of slain warriors become offensive to her? Had she become too proud? Unsure of the answer, she decided to go back and throw open the shutters, Maybe she would move some of the looms to their proper places. They were complicated arrays of har ness and treacdes, but generally more air than wood. A strong woman could push them into motion. Feeling her thoughts begin to settle, she headed up the stairs.

And met Jani Gaylo coming daown. Instantly, Raina rememberes the noise behind the corner loom, Little mice with weasel's tails. Stepping into the center of the stone step, she forced the red-haired maid to walk around her. Raina stared at her, waiting for the girl to meet her eye, but Jani Gaylo kept her pretty head tucked low as she passed..

Oh gods. Was she up there, listening?

Raina continued climbing the stairs, but her sense of purpose had gone. What had she and Anwyn said? Things that did not bear overhearing by anyone in this clan. Uneasy, she let herself into the widows' wall. No sign of any disturbance. But would there be? Quickly she unhooked the closed shutters and pushed them open. The outside air was cold and still, crisp with frost. When she reached the corner loom, she halted. It was one of the large upright frames and a panel of bright blue wool was nearly completed on the harness. That was where Jani Gaylo could have hidden, behind that taut yard of cloth.

Abruptly, Raina turned away. She would not think about it anymore. What was the point? I'll go and saddle Mercy. Get away from this unsafe house.

Hurrying down the stairs she pretended to be busy, waving away those who hailed her and frowning in a preoccupied manner as if she were thinking about hop toasting, milk churning or some other household task. Things had changed since news had arrived from Ganmiddich, and the house was subdued. Men got a little drunker at night. Women had trouble applying themselves to everyday work and would sit morosely and chat. Everyone was waiting on more news. Raina had heard a rumor that Stannig Beade had begun to cut hearts from the new Hailstone.

As she crossed the strange gods-charged space of the east hall, she realized that she had abandoned her task of loading the supply wagon. Orwin Shank had arranged for a cart to be sent south with an armed escort, and Merritt Ganlow and Raina had been in charge of filling it with food, ale, blankets and other home comforts for the Hail armies camped north of Ganmiddich. Merritt would not be pleased. As far as the head widow was concerned, Raina could barely do anything right these days,

Raina suspected she had a point. Ever since Stannig Beade had hit her she had not been able to think clearly. Her attention jumped from one thing to another like a bouncing ball, and she did not like to be alone inside in the house. Jittery was the word she would use to describe herself. It was the first time she had ever felt such a way in her life.

She did not stop to admire the newly completed arch that led east from the roundhouse. The wall scaffolding was in the process of being reconfigured to support the building of the guidehouse and the east ward. Work crews were taking their afternoon break, and men were sitting on chunks of rock and upturned lime barrels, gnawing on bird bones and drinking foamy brown ale. Longhead was the only one still working. The head keep was squatting on a cracked paving stone, drawing a line in chalk.

"Raina."

She was surprised to hear him call her name, and considered pretending not to hear him. The memory of their last meeting together in the hayloft was not a good one. Longhead had admitted to letting himself be influenced by Stannig Beade. The guide had warned the head keep that Raina might start fussing if she were told about the plans for the new ward. And Longhead had lapped it up. It was a kind of betrayal, that setting aside of all the years they'd spent working together for the good of this house. If anyone should have given her the benefit of the doubt it should have been Longhead.

Halting before him, she was cool. "I have not much time."

The head keep rose to standing. He was dressed in his usual attire of a leather work apron over burlap pants and a brown wool shirt. Chalk from his fingers was transferred to his forehead as he wiped the hair from his eyes. "Where you off to?"

Raina thought the question impertinent. "I have work in the stables," she lied.

"I'll walk a ways with you."

"Very well," she agreed huffily, realizing she had misjudged the nature of his question. Longhead did not query where she went or what she did. He just wanted to talk to her alone.

If the head keep had noticed her agitation, he made no show of it, and guided her between piles of logs, cut stones and lime barrels with respectful attention, touching her arm lightly to prevent her from stepping into puddles of tar and gray sludge. Snow had been cleared to a distance of thirty feet around the roundhouse, and only when they had reached the end of the clearing did Longhead speak.

"You told me I should inform you when Stannig Beade wants things done in the house," he said, wasting no time on small talk, "and I think perhaps you were right."

Raina's boots punched though the melted then refrozen snow, leaving deep pits. She did not trust herself to say anything—speak and she would make a mistake—so she kept her silence and watched her feet.

Longhead's oversize jaw came up as he squinted at the clouds. "Beade has asked me to prepare your old chambers for the Scarpe chief, Yelma Scarpe. She will visit next month."