Merle shifted, groaning softly, and Maris reached for his heavy hand. She sat on the edge of the bed and held his fingers in her lap, thanking God again that he was not so sore injured that he had fallen into a fever.

“Maris.” His voice was stronger than she’d expected and a surge of relief rushed over her.

“Papa, I have broth for you…and willow tea.” She helped him sit upright and saw that his eyes were open, gleaming and lucid. Aye, there would be no fever and for that she sent up another prayer of thanks.

“Aye, dearling I find I am quite hungry. Where is your mama?”

Maris brought him the bowl and dredged up a spoonful of the rich broth as she replied. “Mama came immediately, but at the sight of your gash, her head became light, and so she went to get some air. She bade me call her when you awakened—or if you worsened. So there you see, naught has changed in your absence.” She smiled with a bit of humor as well as satisfaction when she saw the way he gulped the broth.

Papa smiled back, easing her worry that much more. “But it’s not the truth, dearling, that naught has changed—for I have seen changes just in this chamber. You’ve grown more beautiful and more skilled in my absence. I told Raymond I wished to come to the place where I would be cared for the best. And I made the right choice.”

“Aye, indeed, Papa, none will care for you as I do,” Maris told him with a teary smile. “But you must rest now.”

“Aye. That I will. And on the morrow, I have much to say to you, my beloved daughter, and I will brook no disagreement from you.”

The morning after Christ’s Mass was a cold, clear one, and the sun was high in the sky. Maris shielded her eyes from the brilliance of the snow as she picked her way to the stables.