A swarm of heat from wine and stewing food and many bodies crammed in one place. The great hall was large, with a vaulted ceiling, but so full that it felt small. The guests sat with Mira’s father at the head table on the dais, silver goblets in or near their hands. They seemed merry enough, except for the boy who’d come. He was sitting up straight and turning his head at the appropriate times to keep his gaze on whoever was speaking, but the matte lacquer of his eyes gave him away—he was bored senseless.

Dayne pulled Mira’s chair out for her when her short steps finally brought her to the rightmost table. He knew she would struggle to pull it out on her own; she found it hard to do most things bundled up in that rigid fabric—even sitting down was a task that needed to be thought about and carefully executed. Dayne helped with this, too, holding out his arm so she could use it to steady herself. He took his seat to her left and waved a serving girl over to ensure that Mira was fed.

Mira’s mother usually sat to her right, only she was not there. It was possible Mira’s youngest sister Dinah—who was still only a baby—needed tending to. Across from her sat three more siblings.

Elfrith, who was twelve, irritated Mira more than any of the others. The girl was far too happy with the world and bothered by nothing (also, Mira felt that Elfrith was much more likable than she was). In Mira’s defence, Dayne also found Elfrith annoying. When the girl was giddy and rambling, his eyes would wander to Mira’s and reveal his irritation and Mira would have to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. She once asked Dayne if she had been so bothersome when she was Elfrith’s age. Dayne insisted she was not.

And then there were the little boys: Hamon and Emery. Though they were only seven and five, both sat solemn and ate in silence as was expected. Sometimes Mira felt bad for Elfrith because Hamon and Emery were so close in age, as were she and Dayne. Poor Elfrith was alone in the middle. The girl had taken a liking to baby Dinah immediately, spending much of her time cooing over the child and humming to her. The only time Elfrith ever got in trouble was when their mother accused her of spoiling the infant by being too attentive. This being said, if Elfrith ever felt lonely, seeing as her only friend was a baby that couldn’t speak, she never said so. Instead, she smiled and gushed over pretty things and leapt up to dance the moment her plate was cleared.

Dayne’s eyes followed a rosy-cheeked serving girl as she came to the table, giving Mira a rich, savoury pie. Mira was tempted to swallow it whole. She could not, of course; a lady needed to eat slowly, cutting off the smallest piece possible, chewing for as long as she could bear in a twisted game of misery. It would take her hours to eat as much as she wanted, and Mira would not be given that much time.

The serving girl lingered, smiling at Dayne, looking for something she could do to please him. She left and returned with wine, filling his goblet even though it wasn’t empty at all. Her eyes moved to the door leading to the kitchens—the one used by the servants—and back to Dayne. He didn’t fully shake his head, but there was one abrupt, subtle movement that resulted in the girl wandering away.

Mira did not yet know enough about the world to understand this interaction. She’d seen it, or something like it, many times before. Often Dayne left the hall after having a conversation with a serving girl’s eyes, but whenever there was a potential husband near, he stayed by Mira’s side all night. For reasons she couldn’t understand, the prospect of her marrying and leaving was not something Dayne was altogether comfortable with. Whenever a man approached her to speak, he was cold and sharp.

“Do you like him?” Dayne whispered.

“Which one?”

“The big, blonde one, Loric. Lord Terrowin’s eldest son.”

Mira looked at the man. He was handsome enough; maybe he would be sweet.

“I don’t know,” she lied. “What have you heard of him?”

“I know he fought well at Kalfolke. And he won the tourney at Pyetersfeld.”

Suspicion rose within Mira as she looked at her brother. He wore an expression she’d not seen on his face before.

“What do you think of him?” she said.

“Better than the last one.”

“You approve then?”

His tongue moved between his teeth. Dayne understood the way things were. He was more aware than most men in that regard. “I don’t—I don’t approve of you marrying so soon.”

“So soon? I’m two years older than cousin Alynne when she married. I’m old enough.”

“I know you are. I just…” He leaned in closer, his next words even quieter than the ones that came before. “Listen, you can’t tell anyone this, but I—I’ve been with a woman. I know I shouldn’t have, but I know what it is, what it’s like. I don’t want you… not yet.” His eyes darted first to Hamon and Emery—they weren’t paying attention—and then around the hall, making sure no one else overheard.

Mira knew her brother well; she knew what he was not saying. He thought the marriage was a good one, good enough that it was likely to happen. She took his hand, but before she could console him, the blonde man approached.

“Lady Mira,” he said. “Sir Dayne.”

Dayne stood and grasped the man’s elbow in a show of noncombatance. “Sir Loric.”

There was a pause that was longer than comfortable.

Mira felt sympathy for Loric—maybe she shouldn’t have, but she did. He seemed lost and unsure of what to say, and she interpreted this as gentleness.

“Would you care to join us?” she said.

There was relief on his face and the smallest of smiles. He sat down beside her at the table, and there was another awkward moment as each person in the group tried to think of something to say. Well, Dayne wasn’t trying; he was frowning and somehow also appearing smug—enjoying Loric’s wordlessness.

Mira made sure her back was straight, that her right ankle was tucked behind her left, and that her hands were folded in a pleasing manner. “Tell me, how was the ride to Arcliff?”

Loric’s shoulders settled, and his smile grew. “It was pleasant, my lady. The climate in the west suits me fine.”

His voice was deep and resounding. Likely it was not his true voice, but how he’d been encouraged to speak. Dayne’s voice was not his own either; lords in training needed to command authority.

Mira studied the potential husband. The width of his forehead was the same as the width of his jaw, making his face more rectangular than was common. His brows were straight but heavy as if he were actually sad and trying to hide it by holding them up. A kind face, Mira concluded. Like his father.

To her surprise, it was Dayne who spoke next. “I hear the Northmen have been raiding along the east.”

“Aye, they have. The season’s only just begun, but they’ve been keeping us very busy. I—” Loric paused as if he were about to say something he shouldn’t. “I’ve mind to build ships and meet them at sea next season.”

Dayne perked up at the sentiment, though quickly he returned to his performance of disinterest. When he spoke, he was condescending, trying to make up for his momentary pleasantness. “A fine idea. Tell me, do you know much of shipbuilding?”

Loric didn’t react to the tone in Dayne’s voice. “Not enough yet, Sir, but we have been studying the Northmen and other ships from history. Next season we will put an end to all of this.”

Dayne was about to say something abrasive, and Mira shot him a look. Be nice.

Loric continued. “We must take action. Half the farmland on the east coast is ablaze. The people who work the land, they don’t have fortresses to hide in. If I am to be Lord of Terrowin one day, I should like to keep my people free from the beasts.”

Men never spoke of such things in Mira’s presence. It was thrilling. She found Sir Loric far more interesting than when the evening began.

Loric did not feel the same way. He grimaced and looked around—first to Emery and Hamon (who were still not listening) and then to Mira. “Forgive me, my lady.”

“For what, Sir?”

“Uh...” He scraped his bottom lip on his teeth. “For speaking of work at the table, my lady.” It was a very mild way of saying, for speaking of man-things in front of a woman.

“I will bear no grudge over it,” Mira said.

Loric looked down at his hands and then back up to Mira. His eyebrows did not seem so heavy anymore. His mouth opened, closed, and then opened it again. “We could dance?”

Mira accepted, and Loric offered his arm. Her mind was consumed by the feeling of rough-spun wool, made warm by his skin, sitting just beneath her fingers. It was The Steps of Wayeforde that was ongoing when they joined the others on the floor, but Mira wasn’t paying attention to the song. Loric was large and surefooted, careful to keep the contact of their bodies minimal. He touched his hands gently to hers only when the dance required, heating her fingertips with his own. There was a cold hollowness whenever he pulled away.

As Mira skirted around the room, she noticed her family’s faces with more fondness than she had before. Her father—aged but noble—was laughing at something Lord Terrowin said. It was rare to see him laugh and the sound, though muffled by distance, warmed her heart. Her father liked the slightest pinch of roguery in his days. And often, he would wait until Mira was watching to perform his feats. Her father’s eyes would glisten, but the rest of his face would keep firm. Who would turn a blind eye to his mischief when she was gone?

Hamon and Emery—so little and so poised—doing their best to keep awake despite the hour. When Mira was married and living elsewhere, and they had grown just a little more, their mother would no longer be sweet with them. Who would teach them how to steal moments away from the austerity of it all? Dayne wouldn’t. Though he was lenient with Mira, he was hard on the little boys.

Elfrith—vibrant and glowing, each step in her dance bouncier than it needed to be. She would have no older sister to speak to when she grew, and the harshness of the world lashed her in the face.

And then there was Dayne, brooding with his arms crossed. Despite his misery, he refused to excuse himself, even when a serving girl brushed his dark curls away from his eyes and tried to lead him out of the hall. With all the others, Mira thought of her absence and how it would affect them. With Dayne, her thoughts were selfish. She didn’t know how she would manage without him. No other person spoke to her or cared for her in the way he did. She’d have to smile or frown forever. And without Dayne, there would be no one to show her real face to.

She did not think of her mother at all during this reflection.

Someone else caught her attention: the man with the broken nose, his mirthful eyes gleaming. He’d taken more than his share of wine and was twirling a dagger in his hands. There was a bronze-gold blur as the steel swam around his wrist. A serving girl was bent over the table, leaning on her forearms and cooing. In a shiny flash, the blade moved up into the air and then down, landing in his open palm. The dagger was still for a moment, and Mira caught a glimpse of its detail.

Curved.

The blade was curved, just like the swords in Mira’s favourite painting. The image was a battle scene from one hundred years ago when the land was still hot and sandy. The warriors back then wore white flowy clothes and held curved swords. At least, that was what Mira imagined the painting depicted. No one knew anything about it.

When she was younger—and bound less strictly to the rules of formality—she would invite guests up into the gallery and ask them about it. No one ever knew where the image came from or what it portrayed. Though it seemed to Mira that men liked being asked what was what. Even if they didn’t have a sliver of the knowledge requested, they were delighted to answer anyways.

“‘Tis a battle.”

“Aye, a famous one at that.”

“Rhedbridge, I think.”

When a bard from Rhedbridge passed through, Mira asked him about his homeland. “Not covered in sand, no, my lady. ‘Tis very much like Arcliff.”

Mira’s mother disapproved of her fascination with the painting. She thought it vulgar and, because some of the men’s chests were visible where their clothing was ripped, likely to stir up impure desires. As a general rule, Mira’s mother did not like her daughter exhibiting curiosity or wonder or strong emotions of any kind; (if you were wondering, Mira’s mother was the frowning sort of wife).

Mira nearly lost her footing, but Loric kept her upright and on time. He set a hand on her ribs, just below her arm, and offered the smallest lift to give her feet a moment to right themselves. The same warmth that her fingers felt as the dance began was splashing around within her chest. Mira smiled graciously. He smiled too.

She wanted to ask Loric about the man with the broken nose and the curved blade, but she didn’t. If they were one day married, he might take offence to the idea that she’d noticed other men. Besides, her mother always said that curiosity was not becoming, and since the silver was out, Mira knew it was essential that she appear becoming.

When the song ended, Loric walked her back to the table where Dayne was still sulking. Loric’s mouth moved around as he struggled to find the proper sentiment, and Dayne’s sour look did not help ease him.

“My lady,” he began. “I do not know you well, it is true, but what I do know… brings me great joy.”

Mira hoped his words were more than courtesy, but there was no way for her to tell. Sir Loric took a delicate flower from his pocket and set it in her hands. He nodded, she curtsied, and Loric walked back to sit with his father.

Mira twisted the flower’s waxy stem in her palm, running a finger over the velvety blue petals. Dayne was not as impressed with the gesture as Mira was; he rolled his eyes and used two fingers to beckon a serving girl—the same rosy one as before—towards his empty cup.

It wasn’t just any flower. It was a blossom from an honesty tree.

Once upon a time, back when the Isle still had a crown, the king was looking to choose an heir as he had no sons. He gave a tree to each of his knights, asking them to care for the plant for a year. He told them he would make his decision based on the tree’s health when the time was up, as he wished to choose the most diligent and caring from among them.

The following year, each knight brought their tree before the king. Thirteen knights had beautiful blooms, but the fourteenth knight had no leaves or flowers on his branches. The king chose the fourteenth knight to rule upon his death, explaining that the trees only bloomed every other year. He’d given each of his knights trees that would not blossom, knowing that some would seek to deceive him by switching their tree for another. This was how the plant got its name.

Mira watched the potential husband for a few moments. Loric listened to his father speak and then her father, and then his father again. He was taller and broader than other men and having spoken to him some, she no longer judged him dim-witted. She wondered if he often drank the way Borin the stonemason did. Borin sometimes drank too much and became angry, and hit his wife for no reason. The woman was always bruised, and no one ever said anything about it.

Loric didn’t drink more than half a cup while she watched him, and she took this as a good sign. He also kept his hand off his goblet when he wasn’t drinking, which Mira took to mean that he wasn’t a greedy man.

She imagined he lived near the sea and that he liked riding as much as she did and pictured them riding along the shore together. It was a sweet thought, but she knew that marriages were not made based on whether a girl and a man liked the same things. There was no point in getting her hopes up or down. More than likely, Loric would be gone the following day, and another man would arrive within a fortnight.

“I’d like to head upstairs now,” she said.

Dayne nodded and stood to escort her, offering his arm and leading her into the dim corridor. Any servants who usually kept the candles lit were busy managing the banquet. Many had gone out, and the few that remained burned low—pitiful streaks of withered white and orange gobbled up by darkness. A soothing empty-quiet closed in with each step they took until the echoing murmurs from the great hall perished. They were left with the sound of their breath and footfalls and that little bit of wind that was always caught within the castle.

“He is licking your boots,” Dayne said. “Father’s as well.”

Mira wasn’t supposed to know what boot-licking meant. Dayne said it once in her presence, and she begged him to explain it. He did, but only after she promised not to tell anyone where she’d heard it. Maybe he is. It was a sad thought but also confusing, as Mira was under the impression that it was women who wanted husbands, not men who wanted wives. Could all the niceties have been false? It was possible. Sometimes Mira went days without expressing a genuine feeling. Loric could be the same.

When they arrived at the door to her chambers, Dayne plucked a roll from his pocket with a smirk. She was still hungry and ate it right there in the hallway with no grace at all. When she was done, Dayne sighed and kissed her on the forehead. He didn’t walk to his own room but back downstairs, likely seeking out the rosy-cheeked girl.

Several nights before, Mira had heard him and their father arguing. She tried to walk past quickly so as to give them privacy, but she still heard a piece.

“She is not just any woman! She deserves more than this!”

“You forget your place.”

“Fuck my place! I will not let you—”

There was a heavy thud as if someone kicked a table or thrown something. At the time, she’d thought they were yelling about one of the serving girls. But it occurred to Mira that night that they might have been arguing about something else. My marriage? The more she thought back to the argument, the more she felt sure it had been about her. But all girls get married. Dayne knows this.

When she entered her chamber, Orlaith was awake and embroidering in silence. The woman said nothing. She stood and began working, releasing Mira’s hair from its binds and brushing it out, prying open the dress so Mira could breathe again.

Mira admired the gown for a few moments as Orlaith smoothed the satiny fabric and hung it in the wardrobe. She made a show of placing the flower from Loric on her dressing table, hoping Orlaith would see and comment. No suitor had ever asked her to dance before or brought her a gift. Perhaps Dayne was wrong about Loric.

“You need not worry, my dear. When you wed, I will go with you, and so you will have at least one friend always.”

Orlaith didn’t say this; it was only what Mira wished she would say. The handmaiden put Mira’s comb away, picked up her embroidery, and left Mira alone in the quiet, darkened room.

Sometimes Mira was accustomed to the loneliness, able to put it out of her mind’s reach with little effort. Other times, it felt like a great beast was eating her heart, ripping away chunks with its teeth. And all the while the creature was chewing, Mira could still feel with the little piece of her heart that was in its mouth.

That night, the beast came.

Even in her dreams, she was alone, wandering across an endless stretch of sand. Yellow as far as the eye could see.