Perhaps she heard in his words more than he meant to tell her. For it seemed to Timbal that he had spun a dream for her that night, a tale that perhaps she was not so alone, and in return she had paid him with the coin that a woman can only spend once. Her virginity was gone, and she knew that to some men, that would matter a great deal when it came time to broker a marriage. She suddenly saw that of the small store of things she possessed, first knowledge of her body had been a good she hadn’t counted. Now she had given it to him, and though they had both enjoyed the experience, he was not bound to her by it. She would never be able to look her husband in the face and say, “Never have I known any man but you.” That was gone, carried off by the golden tongue of a minstrel.

It seemed useless to rebuke him with that. Doubtless he thought it no more than she owed him for a honey cake, some wine, and some sympathy. He would not understand what he had taken from her. She sighed and he told her, “Cheer up. We are not so far from the keep and your bed.”

At the foot of the stair he paused, holding on to her hand. The few torches that still burned outside the keep were but nubs in their sconces. She could scarcely see his face.

“You know, Blue Boots, I don’t know your proper name, even.”

Shame rose in her. She’d given him her maidenhead, and he hadn’t even known her name.

“Timbal,” she said quietly. “I am Timbal.”

“Ah, a little drum, and one that sets a lively beat. It suits you. And yet I prefer Blue Boots.”