Greta found her standing at the window, motionless and rigid as she watched servants stack wood for her father's pyre. Greta put her arm on her charge's shoulder, but Ilsabet did not lean against her, nor acknowledge her presence in any way.

"Servants know so much, Greta," Ilsabet finally said. "Have you heard who gave my father his lethal wound?"

"I understand he fought with Baron Peto, himself."

"Ah! So I can hate him. How marvelous." Ilsabet turned to Greta then, and the servant must have seen the sheer joy she felt in that hatred, a joy that brought with it a kind of madness.

"There is little you can do to him no matter how much you loathe him, child," she said.

"Never call me 'child' again," Ilsabet responded. "And I have no need of consoling. Why are you here?"

Greta looked at her uneasily. "The rite will be start-ing in an hour. Baron Peto has sent word that he wishes to meet with the family afterward. I thought you might wish to prepare."

"Prepare? Yes, I suppose so." She followed Greta to her chamber where she deliberately chose the same gown she had worn on the day she'd visited the camp. She wanted it to serve as a reminder of her rash words, and of her vow to never be so impulsive again.

"You should wear red or black, the colors of mourning," Greta chided.

"I've chosen the colors of our house," Ilsabet replied. "Father would want someone to do so."

"So he would," Greta agreed. She was putting the last pins in Ilsabet's hair when they heard the ringing of the huge iron bell in the courtyard, summoning the castle to the funeral rites.

"Go on ahead, Greta," Ilsabet ordered. "I'll come soon."

She waited until Greta had gone, then ran down the hall to her father's room, retrieving some of his treasures, which she carried to her own room and hid in a cupboard. Downstairs, she moved through the crowd to take her place beside her brother, just as the priests were beginning their chant.