Petronille wore a dress that Brand had provided, one of those flouncy dresses, this one blue, which complimented her complexion. Petronille had pale, milky skin and blue eyes and her features were, if not exactly pretty, then delicate.

“My hair is a bit messy. I usually have my sister braid it. Does it seem messy?”

“You look fine,” Seri reassured her.

Brand would surely think her lovely. Seri twisted her hands. She had not yielded to Brand in her all her months here, and he had shown no interest in Gretchen. If he wished to find a girl to warm his bed, Petronille must seem the perfect victim.

Brand opened the door to the dining room.

“Good evening, Ladies,” he said. “You all look beautiful tonight. Petronille, I’m pleased to see you found the dresses. The color suits you.”

Petronille blinked. “Thank you, kind sir. And who might you be?”

“This is Brand,” Seri said.

“But—?

“What you saw before was a disguise,” Brand explained. “This is how I truly appear.”

“Oh!” Petronille said. “You’re so handsome.”

At this, Brand puffed like a peacock. “That is the first compliment I have received in many months. And to hear it from such a beautiful girl. I am honored.” He bowed. “But dinner awaits us, and I do not wish it to get cold. Seri, will you take my arm?”

She was surprised he addressed her. “Have I ever taken it?”

“No, but as the senior lady, I felt it only proper to offer. No?” He looked at Petronille. “Will you take my arm, Miss?”

“Certainly,” Petronille said, before Seri could say that she didn’t need to.

Brand and Petronille walked in first, like a lord and lady. Seri stayed behind with Gretchen. Gretchen was wearing a wool dress that Ida had originally sewn for Lotte; the two were about the same size. Brand did not seem to care what Gretchen wore. He did not seem to bother with Gretchen much at all. In fact, when they got to the dining room, Brand sat Petronille at his left hand—Gretchen’s spot.

“Gretchen, I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I know you have been here longer, but conversation seems to tire you. Therefore, I think you would be happier by Seri’s side. Have I offended you with this placement?”

“No,” Gretchen said and sat down near Seri.

Seri sat at Brand’s right hand, as she usually did. Not that it mattered much to her where she sat. This dinner ritual was all part of his game.

Lately, though, she’d begun to wonder at the games he played, why he was so intent on playing them. This one was not hard to guess at, for Brand was doing what most lords did, arranging his table according to rank and favor. The bigger game—the one she didn’t understand—was the kidnapping and the curse.

Why had he taken Petronille?

Seduction was the obvious answer. Throughout dinner, Brand chatted—nay, flirted—with Petronille. He spoke in low, soft tones, forcing her to bend her head near his just to hear him. He whispered in her ear, and she blushed and giggled. He smiled. He paid her compliments. He stopped just short of touching her, but he came close. His hand hovered near hers all evening.

Clearly, Brand wanted to sleep with Petronille. As far as Seri knew, he hadn’t bedded a woman since Rilla, which was several months ago. Petronille was sweet and willing. He desired her. He meant to have her.

Seri tore into the roast on her plate. What didn’t make sense, though—what had never made sense—was why Brand felt obliged to kidnap and curse the women he intended to sleep with. It seemed completely counter-productive to the endeavor. Why bring Petronille to this tower where Seri could—and would—do everything in her power to keep Brand from taking advantage of the poor girl? And then why send them back home after three months?

Then, there was Gretchen. Seri glanced at her. Gretchen was very slowly and stoically chewing on the bones, as if being compelled to finish her food by an invisible force. Brand had no intention of sleeping with Gretchen. He didn’t seem interested in her at all. There was no reason for him to kidnap her, and he knew it, but he brought her here anyway. It made Seri wonder if he had a reason—if she was trying to figure out a riddle, with no answer.

At the end of the final course, Brand turned to look at Seri and Gretchen (for what seemed like the first time that whole evening), and announced, “Ladies, thank you for the pleasant company. Dinner is now over, and I will adjoin to my private room. I would like—”

“I can accompany you, if you wish,” Seri interrupted.

Brand blinked. “As much as I cherish our time together, Seri,” he said, with the barest hint of sarcasm, “tonight I intend for Petronille to join me.”

“What if she’s not ready?” Seri asked.

Brand’s eyes narrowed. “Not ready to talk?”

“I don’t know what you intend to do with her in there.”

“Yes, you do,” he said, growing irritated. “You damn well know.”

“I know what you’ve done in the past,” Seri said. “I don’t know what you’re going to do now.”

“I have rules, Seri.”

“And this is a rule?” she said. “That you only talk on the first night.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Brand tilted his head. “I would have thought that you, of all people, would appreciate this rule.”

“Oh, I do,” Seri said. “But it’s a rule that restricts you, not us. So why have it?”

“There is a reason for my rules, Seri,” he said, growing heated.

“What reason?”

“A reason!” he said, standing up. “The rules are there because I desire them to be there. If I did not desire them to be there, I would not have them.”

“You could change them.”

“The rules don’t change. If they changed, they would not be rules.”

That was circuitous reasoning. Also, it was untrue. He did change the rules. That first night he kidnapped Gretchen, he hadn’t required her to visit his private room. Seri thought about pointing this out, but that would only extend their quarrel, and she didn’t feel like fighting. Besides, she noticed that Petronille had sunken into her chair, and was watching them, eyes wide with fright.

Seri stood up. “Don’t get me wrong, Brand,” she said. “I am glad you impose some restrictions on yourself. It’s as close as you’ll venture to a code of honor.”

Brand frowned, clearly unsure of whether to take that remark as an insult or a compliment.

“Petronille,” Seri continued, looking at her, “I’m sorry if our argument frightened you.”

“It’s all right,” she said quietly.

“Gretchen and I will take our leave,” Seri said. “Unless you wish us to stay longer.”

Petronille glanced at Brand, and said, “No. I’m… I’m fine.”

“Good night, Seri,” Brand said, in a brisk voice. “Good night, Gretchen,” he added, more gently, then he looked at the new girl. “Petronille, shall we?”

Brand offered Petronille his arm. She took it.

Seri walked out of the dining room, with Gretchen following behind her. And as terrible as it sounded, a small part of Seri was relieved. Relieved that she didn’t have to join Brand in his room. Relieved that, for one night at least, she was not going to have to endure this… this awful heat he threw her way.

She didn’t know what else to call it—this tension, this thickness in the atmosphere. Brand was like a storm cloud, changing the pressure in the room. Seri never could tell if he’d be full of thunder or bring in this gasping and choking sort of humidity. Lately, it had felt more like the latter. Every time they played chess, she could feel his eyes on her and all his frustrations pushing up against her skin.

To have one night, not having to deal with that, with him—it was a reprieve. Seri saw Gretchen up to her room and made sure she had everything she needed. Then she retired to her own room. She fell back against the bed with a sigh.

She was so tired. Every night, the curse bent and thickened the bones in her body, so that she could hardly sleep. Her belly was a furnace, and her heart pumped so hard and heavy, she feared it would burst. It hurt. Often in the day, but mostly at night. Enduring the transformation was one of the hardest things she’d had to do, but to endure him and his moods and his lust and his temper on top of all that….

It was too much.

Petronille would be fine. Seri could rest—for one night at least.

Seri undressed and did her nightly toilet. She said her prayers. She prayed for rescue; she prayed for strength; she prayed for the girls that had left the castle and for the girls still trapped within its walls. And she prayed for Brand. She prayed for his soul, which was squished and bent and not quite right—but which was a soul, nonetheless.

Then she wriggled into the covers, braced for the cold coming from outside her body and the heat coming from within it, closed her eyes, and tried to sleep.