"Take care not to get caught if you do," Ilsabet responded. "With so much unrest you might be taken for an enemy."

Greta's round face grew pale. Ilsabet noticed it and hugged the woman. "I was only joking, you old fool," she said, troubled by the sudden thrill she'd felt at seeing the woman's fear. "Now go. With half the household servants conscripted, I'm sure you have other duties. I can certainly dress myself."

"The steam," Greta ordered. Ilsabet sighed and lowered her head nearly to the water's surface, breathing deeply until the congestion in her lungs lessened. Then she stood in front of the mirror to arrange her hair.

Lady Lorena was fond of saying that Janosk's three children had each been given some special gift. Marishka, the eldest at nineteen, had inherited her mother's incredible beauty. Mihael, two years younger, had his father's rugged good looks and skill with weaponry, though it seemed that he would always be too thin to wield the heavier swords. And Ilsabet, almost sixteen, was the bookish one. Lorena listed her virtue with some regret, noting sadly that Ilsabet's intelligence had not made her a wit.

Ilsabet knew Lorena was right. She always had to weigh her words carefully before speaking, if she spoke at all. Ilsabet knew all too well that most nobles perceived her as plain and shy-perhaps even dim-witted.

But Ilsabet was certain of her worth. Her father reminded her of it often enough when he quizzed her about her lessons or stopped in when she was being tutored by Lord Jorani. Jorani praised her, too; he believed she would one day serve her brother as Jorani served her father-as advisor, family historian, and trusted friend.

Not a bad future, she thought. Better at least than an arranged, loveless marriage, such as her sister faced.