Elf did not even notice her sister-in-law and the knight depart. She was staring, horrified, at her brother as he slept. Richard was practically a skeleton, and his skin tone was an unhealthy yellow gray. He had been a handsome man, but now his cheeks were sunken, his nose prominent, and his cheekbones quite visible. The skin was stretched tightly over his skull, and his once fine russet hair was so thin he was almost bald in places. Elf knelt by her brother’s cot, her eyes tear-filled. "Dickon," she said softly to him. "Dickon, I have come home to make you well again."

Richard de Montfort’s gray eyes opened slowly. A bony hand gripped her arm. "Who are you?" he rasped.

"It is I, Dickon. It is Elf," she said. "Your sister." Undoing the chin strap that held her wimple in place, she pulled the covering from her head so that he might see her hair. Then she smiled.

"Elf," he said softly. "Is it really you? You have grown."

"I would hope so, brother." She laughed. "It has been nine years since we last saw each other. I was but a little girl of five years, Dickon. I am now fourteen, and soon to take my vows, but Isleen sent for me, as you are gravely ill. I am the assistant infirmarian at the convent. Perhaps I can help you."

He smiled back at her. "I am dying, Elf, and there is no help for me," he said. "When I am gone, sister, Ashlin will be yours."

"But what of Isleen?" Elf asked him, astounded. "Isleen is your wife, Dickon. Ashlin should be hers, not mine."

"Isleen’s dower portion will be restored, and she will be returned to the de Warennes," he told Elf. "Ashlin, by law, is yours. You have not taken your final vows yet, Elf. If you decide to, you may take a husband instead. Ashlin is small, but it is a respectable dower portion. Allow St. Frideswide’s to have the dowry I paid them when you went there. It is only fair. They have cared for and educated you all these years."