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the shoemaker, the smith for repairs to a kettle and some pots, the alewife, the wine merchant and the miller. Indeed, Celeste was beginning to think there was no tradesman in Dunborough to whom she did
not
owe money.
    “It’s me, Sister. Lizabet, from the hall.”
    Celeste let out her breath slowly and opened the door, to find the young woman standing on the threshold. Instead of a cloak, she wore a large and colorful shawl and a kerchief over her dark hair. Her gown was of thick wool and she had an apron over that.
    Despite her heavy clothing, her nose was red with cold and she had her hands tucked in her shawl to warm them.
    “Please, come inside,” Celeste said at once.
    “No, thank you, Sister,” Lizabet replied, her teeth starting to chatter. “I can’t stay. I came to tell you that it’s nearly time for the evening meal.”
    Celeste’s brows contracted. If it was a busy time at the castle, why had she...?
    “It’s nearly time for the evening meal,” Lizabet repeated more firmly, as if she thought Celeste hadn’t heard her. “You’re a guest of Dunborough.”
    With sudden understanding, Celeste replied, “Only for last night. I should have made it clear that I had no intention of imposing on Gerrard’s hospitality for any longer than that.”
    The maidservant frowned with concern, or possibly dismay.
    Celeste gave the young woman her most pleasant, placid smile. “Please convey my thanks to Gerrard for the invitation, as well as my assurances that I’m quite content to remain in my family’s house while I’m here.”
    “If you say so, Sister,” she hesitantly replied.
    “I do. Now you’d best be off before you catch a chill.”
    Lizabet did as she was told and, thinking Gerrard would likely be as glad of her absence as she was relieved not to see him again, Celeste went back to searching the larder for any sign of money hidden there.
    Albeit with a heavy sigh.
    * * *
    The sun was setting when Gerrard and his men returned from their patrol. There was no reason for them to go so far that frigid day except that Gerrard wasn’t eager to return to Dunborough.
    This time, though, it wasn’t his irate, cruel father he was reluctant to see. It was a nun.
    He handed the reins of his horse to a stable boy and went to the hall. A few of the hounds trotted toward him, eager for a pat and a good word. The trestle tables had been set up for the evening meal and the servants and soldiers not on duty or seeing to the horses and other tasks were already assembled.
    Gerrard removed his cloak and hung it on a peg beside the door, then scanned the hall.
    He scanned it again, thinking he must be mistaken.
    He was not.
    Celeste—Sister Augustine—was not there.
    Gerrard sighed with relief, then frowned. It would look bad to the soldiers and servants if she kept to her room a second night, and rumors would start circulating in the castle and probably the village, too, that she refused to have anything to do with him.
    That could very well be true. Nevertheless, it would likely start other rumors, none of them good, at least where he was concerned.
    Or perhaps there was another reason for her absence. Maybe she was sick, exhausted from her journey.
    “Lizabet!” he called, summoning the maidservant standing with the others at the entrance to the kitchen.
    “Where is Sister Augustine?” he asked when she reached him. “Is she unwell?”
    The servant shook her head. “No, sir. She’s at the house...her family’s house,” she added when Gerrard’s frown deepened.
    “Did no one send word that it was time for the evening meal?”
    “Yes, sir, I went myself, but she said she wasn’t coming back. She said she’d rather stay in her own house.”
    “By
herself
?”
    Wringing her hands, Lizabet looked as if she was about to cry.
    Gerrard instantly regretted his harsh tone. The blame was not hers, after all.
    “It’s not your fault,” he assured her. “She’s always been stubborn.”
    That was true. Even