Valentin said, “I understand, my love! I appreciate you have so much to handle!”

“If you did truly understand, you wouldn’t press me so.” Isabeau wept. She was pretty when she cried. Her eyes didn’t swell or redden as shining tears streamed down her cheeks. “Ruling a demesne alone can be so grueling. I swear, at times it is almost too much!”

“If there is anything I can do for you, only say so!” Valentin begged. “That’s why I want to become your partner in both word and deed—in order to shoulder some of the burden you carry. Let me help you!”

It would be a cold day in hell before either Isabeau or Modred would allow that, Morgan thought cynically. Propping his elbow on an upraised knee, Morgan rubbed his tired eyes with thumb and forefinger as he listened to Isabeau manipulate the other man. Valentin was clearly pressing for an advantage, but every word the other man spoke betrayed his true intentions.

Isabeau sniffed. “You can help me! Only ease your insistence about when we go public with our relationship. Let me deal with what I must. When my captain is fully healed, he’ll have no choice but to return to me. My borders will be strengthened, and I will gain the upper hand again in this war. Then I can give you—I can give us—the full attention we deserve. Just be patient with me for now!”

“Of course, I will,” Valentin replied shortly. To Morgan’s ears, the other man sounded truculent. “I’ll be as patient as you need me to be.”

Satisfaction laced Isabeau’s voice as she crooned, “I knew I could count on you. Come, my love. I’m starving. Let’s have lunch on the terrace overlooking the water.”

“Very well.”

Bit by bit, Morgan relaxed as the sound of their voices faded.

He assessed his current situation grimly. Sooner or later, sometime today a stableboy would be around to take the horses out for exercise, muck out the stalls, and give them fresh water.

Meanwhile, he was still dizzy and depleted, and it was midday. He needed to get to his safe spot and his supplies, but he couldn’t. At the moment, he didn’t have enough Power to throw a spell with the kind of strength it would take to cloak a man walking across an open area in broad daylight.

He would have to rest and wait for his opportunity. If a stableboy came to care for the gelding, maybe by then he could cast a spell of shadows in one corner of the stall. If not, perhaps he could spell the stableboy to forget.

Frustration nagged at him. He was going to have to wait until dusk before he could make his way to his supplies. Then he would need to eat and drink, take medication, and tend to his wound before he attempted anything else.

He was going to have to break his promise to Sidonie. There was no way he could reach her soon after the prisoners’ evening meal.

Leaning back in the corner of the stall, he closed his eyes and schooled himself to patience.

* * *

Shortly after her mysterious healer left, Sid’s cell lightened to gray and the guard came by with her morning meal. While he shoved the tray through the slot underneath the barred door, Sid took the chance to look fully around her cell.

It was as bleak as she had remembered when they had first brought her in. The plain, leather-bound cot had no blankets. The hole in the opposite corner was indeed the privy. The walls, ceiling, and floor were solid, hewn rock, all gray and brown. They reflected the fiery colors from the guard’s torch.

The guard didn’t remark on the fact that she no longer lay on the floor curled in a ball. Instead, he left without a word. Before the torchlight could completely fade away, she darted forward to snatch up the tray and dump the contents of the battered bowl—it looked like a watery strew with unidentifiable chunks floating in it—and the cup down the privy hole. Then she set the tray beside the door.

When the light had faded again, it took a while for her eyes to adjust to the darker gray. The sound of something small and furtive scurried nearby, and her imagination was all too happy to offer up an explanation.

It was a rat. Or plural, rats. Of course there would be rats down here. Shuddering, her thoughts went to the hidden food her benefactor had given her. She had wrapped it in her hoodie and tucked it in a corner. Retrieving it quickly, she went to sit on the cot.

The grapes would give her some much-needed moisture, and she knew she would be thirsty later, so she set those aside and ate the bread. It was as tasty as it smelled, simple, yeasty goodness. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes as she nibbled on the crust. She didn’t think she had ever been so grateful for so little before.

Privilege.

It wasn’t something she thought about much. In conversation and in thought, she often looked at how hard she worked (she did work extremely hard), and how much time she put into her music (countless hours). She deserved every bit of the success she had achieved.

But the truth was many other people put in countless hours developing their craft, skill, business, or passion, and they didn’t achieve anything like the success she’d enjoyed. Most people didn’t have the kind of support Sid had gotten from her parents, who had done everything they could to encourage her gift.

When they began to get an inkling of how gifted Sid was musically, her father had given up his faculty position at Dalhousie University in Nova Scotia to take a job at NYU. They moved from Canada just so she could attend Juilliard from an early age.

When she graduated with a master’s in music from Juilliard, she’d never had to take out a student loan. She had begun her adulthood talented, highly educated, and debt free, and if that wasn’t privilege, she didn’t know what was.

Now the simple goodness of a well-baked loaf of bread brought tears to her eyes.

The soup, bread, and fruit weren’t enough calories for a day. She would be hungry later. Forcing herself to stop eating, she set half the loaf of bread carefully with the grapes. Then she counted the strips of crosshatched leather in the cot.

This cot had eleven strips in length and thirty-five across. How irritating! It didn’t match the first cot at all! She counted them again to be sure. Eleven and thirty-five. Then again. Eleven and thirty-five. Then she pulled her pebbles out of her pocket and counted them. Twenty-one. Twenty-one. Twenty-one.

Finally she forced herself to shove the pebbles back into her pocket. It was much harder to do than she had expected. The only way she could do it was by promising herself that she could count her grapes again.

Her OCD had never been so bad before. When she was at home and comfortable in New York, it was little more than an annoyance. She had to go back into her apartment after leaving to double-check all the appliances and lights were safely off. She never caught a taxi on the left side of the street, even when it was a one-way street. She always counted the light posts on each block as she walked. But it was all manageable.