The first missing widow allotment belonged to a woman I remembered. Not her face at first. Her handwriting. Ruth Dain wrote every request in block letters because her hands shook in winter.

Three years ago, before the South Wing, I had approved extra lamp oil f

Marcus Vane did not come to Blackthorn. He sent terms. That told me almost as much.

The formal offer arrived at noon, carried by the same envoy who had suspended grain shipments at the emergency assembly. This time he asked for the great hall. Not a private room.

The first wagon was on fire when we reached the north bend. Not fully. Canvas burned along one side while two drivers threw snow against it with their bare hands.

The road had become a trap. Three wagons were turned sideways across the bend. One had lost a wheel. Grain