She tried to ignore the red carnations strewn through the hall: spots of bright color like drops of fresh blood. Red and black ribbons and drapes were hung carefully from hooks set in the walls, silently reminding her of the reason she had returned to Lambshold. The joy of seeing Hart and Irrenna again faded.

This was not her home. Her big, laughing, cunning, larger-than-life father was dead, and she had no place here anymore. Wolf’s mouth closed gently around her palm. A gesture of affection on the part of the wolf, he said, when she asked him about it once. She closed her fingers on his lower jaw, comforted by the familiar pressure of his teeth on her hand.

The hall, like the courtyard, was subdued, with only a minimal number of servants scurrying about. On the far end of the room, the black curtains were drawn across the alcove where her father’s body would be lying. Wolf’s teeth briefly applied heavier pressure, and she relaxed her hand, realizing she’d tightened her grip too much.

At the bottom of the stairs, Irrenna stopped. “You go on up. I’ll let the rest of the family know that you’re here. Your old dresses are still in good condition, but if they don’t fit, send a maid to me, and I’ll see what can be done. Falhart, when you have taken Aralorn’s bags up, please attend me in the mourning room.”

“Of course, thank you.” Aralorn continued up the stairs as if she had never refused to wear the dresses fashion dictated a Rethian lady confine herself to—but she couldn’t resist adding dryly, “Close your mouth, Hart. You look like a fish out of water.”

He laughed and caught her easily, ruffling her hair as he passed. He drew his hand back quickly. “Ish, Aralorn, you need to wash your hair while you’re at it.”

“What?” she exclaimed, opening the door to her old room. “And kill off all the lice I’ve been growing for so long?”

Hart handed her bags to her with a grin. “Still smart-mouthed, I see.” When Aralorn tossed her bags into a heap on the floor, he added, “And tidy as well.”