"I stole a basin of hot water from the kitchen when the cook wasn't looking," Greta said. "While you wash your face, breathe in the steam. It will help to clear your lungs."

"Did you hear how the battle went?" Ilsabet asked.

"No, your father will undoubtedly tell you though, then you can tell me." Greta studied the gowns arranged on hooks along one of the chamber walls. "The red one? It will give color to your face."

Ilsabet looked in the tiny mirror above the washstand.

"You're right about my pallor," she said as she stepped into the gown. "I wouldn't want father to worry about my health when there are more important problems to consider."

"But someone should worry," Greta insisted. "I am going to ask the Lady Lorena to move your chambers to a warmer room until you're better, perhaps the one above the kitchen."

"I will not use it! That was Mother's room."

"Given to her for a good reason, child. It is the warmest."

"I'm not that sick!" Ilsabet insisted, though fear of a death as pain-filled as her mother's was hardly the reason she would not sleep in those chambers.

The room in which her mother died was believed to be haunted by her ghost, and Ilsabet feared spectres. Greta said that in the ages since Nimbus Castle was built many had died within its walls, and many spirits stayed. Ilsabet had a certain sensitivity to them, glimpsing the almost-shapes that formed in the incessant river fog, in the smoke that rose from the hearths, or waiting in the shadows at the ends of the hall. It was said that the most powerful of these were the ones who had died through treachery or in great pain. If so, her mother's ghost would be powerful indeed for she had held tenaciously to life, battling death for every breath. Ilsabet hid her terror well; otherwise Greta wouldn't have suggested the move.

Greta recognized the uselessness of arguing. "As you wish, child," she said. "But tonight I will bring wood for your hearth if I have to destroy the dining hall chairs to obtain it."