She wanted to weep. They had saved so little. She’d loved every worn stick, every moth-eaten inch of tattered velvet that her mother had ever touched, but her father’s servants had discarded most of it as worthless trash.

She forced down the anger and useless sense of loss. “Look on the bright side, Khamsin,” she muttered to herself, “at least there’s less for you to search through.”

She stepped into the solar, leaving the door unlatched and propped open just the tiniest crack so she could hear if anyone entered the bower. With a brisk sense of purpose, aware that each second that ticked by was a moment closer to the White King’s return, she began to search. She started with the sheet-covered furniture, pulling cloths away until she found her mother’s dresser, where she’d kept the most treasured belongings. Unfortunately, the top of the dresser had been cleared off, and its drawers emptied. Khamsin turned to the jumbled pile in the corner of the room and began rummaging through it.

Halfway through the pile, she found her mother’s golden brush, comb, and mirror, and that gave her hope. A layer or two deeper, she came up with the miniature oil painting. Finally, near the bottom of the pile, beneath a tangle of long-outdated gowns, she saw the familiar, cracked leather bindings of Queen Rosalind’s handwritten gardener’s journal and her diary. At last! Khamsin snatched the books to her chest and bent over them, rocking a little as her breath came in relieved sobs.

Sounds—the click of a door latch, then voices—wafted through the cracked solar door.

Her heart leapt into her throat. She jumped to her feet, her mother’s treasures clutched to her heart, and tiptoed to the door to peer out the narrow opening.

A pale-haired man in blue walked past her line of vision. The White King’s second-in-command. What had she heard the servants call him? Valik? Then another man, one she knew instantly without even a glimpse of his unforgettable face. White-haired, golden-skinned, clad in creamy silk and a pale blue velvet vest: the Winter King.

What was he doing back so soon? She drew back in instinctive fear, terrified that he might turn his ice-cold eyes upon the solar door and find her standing there.

The two of them were talking in voices too low for her to hear. Valik murmured something and headed back towards the doors. She heard them open and close. Then the Winter King walked past her line of vision again, and she heard the sound of water running in the bath, muffled by the closing bathroom door.

Time to leave. She stuffed her mother’s things in the deep inner pockets of her skirts and crept out into the bower, turning to close the solar door behind her but not daring to lock it for fear the White King would somehow hear the click of the bolt. She hadn’t taken more then two steps when a mocking voice froze her in her tracks.

“Well, well, what do we have here? A pretty little assassin come to slay the Winter King in his bath?”

Wynter watched the girl—a slender young thing in a gray servant’s dress—freeze like a doe scenting the hunter. Her head came up, eyes wide and frightened. She stiffened when she caught sight of him standing in the bedroom doorway, the sound of his bath still splashing merrily away in the empty bathing chamber. Her eyes met his. He smiled, and it wasn’t a pleasant expression.

She bolted.

With a darting speed many a runner in his land would be hard-pressed to match, she leapt across the room towards the doors. He didn’t chase her. He didn’t even call out though the guards stationed outside the door would easily have put an end to her flight. He just crossed his arms lazily over his chest and waited while Valik emerged from his concealment behind a large breakfront and blocked her escape route.

She skidded to a halt, half-crouched, arms outflung, and sucked in her breath with an audible gasp.

“Stay a while, won’t you?” Wynter murmured. He sauntered closer as she straightened and turned warily back to face him. He’d given Verdan the rest of the day and night to decide which daughter would wed Wynter. Was this assassin Verdan’s answer?

He let his gaze wander over the girl’s smooth, unlined face. She was quite lovely. Her skin a fine, warm, Summerlander brown, her heart-shaped face blessed with high, sculpted cheekbones, full lips, and a pointed little chin that had the look of stubbornness about it. Dominating it all was a pair of flashing, storm gray eyes beneath dark arching brows.

“Such a pretty face for such an ugly profession.”

“I’m no assassin!” she protested. “I’m just a maid. I came to freshen your bath before you returned.”

“Truly? But that way”—he tilted his head towards the door in the south wall—“does not lie my bath.” His brows lifted in mocking inquiry.

She swallowed, and he could see the vein in the hollow of her throat pulsing like a fluttering bird caught in a snare as she tried to figure her way out of the lie. “I . . . er . . . I . . .” Stammering, openly nervous, she began to back away. Her eyes darted to the left and right, seeking a possible path of escape.

Well, that was interesting. Wynter’s initial assumption underwent an immediate reversal. Whatever she was, this girl was no assassin. A professional would have planned an entrance, and exit, and a plausible excuse for her presence if she were caught. And Verdan would have chosen someone older and colder, someone who would have killed Wynter, died trying, or slit her own throat if she failed at both, just to keep from revealing who’d hired her.

One other thing was also clear: whatever her reasons for being here, they had nothing to do with tending his bath.