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of the Northern Isles.
    “It’s just that I don’t want to cause offense, my lord,” Vasilios finished, sounding a little weak, and he clenched his hands within the folds of his tunic.
    Markos shook his head and poured the tea. “I really doubt you could cause me offense,” he said. “I am rather notorious for my breaks with convention.” He smiled, which caused fine lines to appear at the corners of his eyes. Vasilios worked hard not to fidget or blush, and he dropped his gaze to the tiny delicate teacup Markos pushed in front of him.
    The door opened again, and Markos looked up, a frown smoothing out those tiny lines and making him appear much older.
    “Patros Athanasios,” the serving woman said, gesturing to a young dark-haired man in full military uniform—chain-mail shirt, steel greaves, hard leather vambraces, and woolen cloak.
    Vasilios wished he was still kneeling. It was strange and nerve-wracking enough to step this far beyond propriety in front of Markos, but in front of other people was even worse.
    “Patros,” Markos said, sounding tired and not happy.
    “I’m sorry to disturb you, General.” Patros’s gaze flickered to Vasilios and then away. “But they’ve found a body.”
    Markos swore low in the language of the Northern Wolves and then stood. “The same as before?”
    Patros hesitated a moment. “Yes.”
    “Have you sent word to the Bishop?” Markos asked.
    “I did,” Patros said, and Markos turned toward Vasilios.
    “I am sorry,” he said, his voice becoming softer and gentler. “But this is urgent business I must attend to.” His fingertips lightly brushed across the back of Vasilios’s hand, startling enough to cause Vasilios to look up quickly and then away. “I will go over the papers you have brought, and we will speak of this another time.”
    “Yes, of course, General Markos,” Vasilios said. Keeping his eyes firmly downcast, he slid quickly off the couch, onto his knees again, and bowed to Markos and Patros.
    “Another time, Vasilios Eleni,” Markos said, deep voice still gentle. “Phyllis will see you out.”
    He turned away then, and Vasilios listened to the sound of Markos’s and Patros’s boots against the tiled floor as they left the room and headed down the hall. When he was sure they were no longer there, he looked up at the older woman, Phyllis, he assumed.
    “You best come with me.” She didn’t appear any happier now than she had when she’d showed him in. “Unless you want to finish your tea.”
    “No.” Vasilios rose to his feet and smoothed down the front of his tunic—it was the rich rust red he’d carefully chosen that morning. “I will leave now.”
    She nodded and led the way back out of the room to the front door. She opened the door for him.
    “God’s blessing upon your house,” Vasilios said softly, and she nodded, short and curt.
    “And on yours,” she said and then all but slammed the door behind him.
    Vasilios made his way through the rain, across the small courtyard, and out onto the street.
     
     
    “D ID you hear?” one kitchen servant asked another, the day after Vasilios’s meeting with Markos. “Lord Dianos’s third son’s wife just had a baby, and the little one was stolen away, poor dear.” She leaned closer to the other serving woman, lowering her voice. “They are saying in the market that they just found the body a few days ago.”
    Both serving women shook their heads and tsked. Vasilios cleared his throat, causing them both to startle and turn around guiltily.
    “Your time,” he said, keeping his voice level but with a warning, “could be better spent doing your work rather than gossiping about other people’s misfortune.”
    They both ducked their heads, muttering apologies, and Vasilios moved on to inspect the latest delivery of mutton for the night’s meal.

2

     
    T HAT night Vasilios woke sobbing again.
    Even awake, he could still hear the terrified cries of children echoing through his head,