Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she marched downstairs to her scheduled luncheon with the ladies of the court. There, at least, she had never felt at home enough to let down her guard. And because she hadn’t let down her guard, the Winterladies of the court couldn’t hurt her the way the upstairs children just had.

Or so she thought until she reached the dining hall, and Lady Melle came forward, smiling sweetly, her hands outstretched.

“Come in, my dear, come in. We were beginning to worry you’d gotten lost.” As they took their seats at the banquet table, Lady Melle beamed. “Cook has outdone herself today. She’s prepared a special treat just for you. I understand it’s one of your favorites.” She waved over the first of a line of servants carrying covered trays of food. The server whipped off the deep tray with a flourish. A cloud of steam billowed forth as the servant holding the tray held it out for Khamsin’s inspection. “Lutefisk and eels,” Lady Melle announced with a happy smile.

Kham’s eyes widened, and her nostrils flared at the sight—and dreadful aroma—of the pile of gelatinous white fish surrounded by a sea of broth swimming with onions, garlic, and long black eels. Her stomach gave a terrible lurch.

The Winterladies gasped in surprise as Kham leapt to her feet so fast she sent her chair flying.

“My dear!” Lady Melle cried.

“Your Grace!” someone else exclaimed.

Kham clapped a hand over her mouth, grabbed her skirts in one hand, and bolted for the door. Please, let me make it out of the room. Don’t let me shame myself before them. Please, let me make it out of the room.

She didn’t make it.

“She puked over lutefisk and eels?” Valik asked when Lady Melle finished her report of this afternoon’s disastrous luncheon. “Who doesn’t like lutefisk and eels? They’re delicious!”

“Valik.” Wynter gave his second-in-command a pointed look and jerked his head in the direction of the door. Valik grimaced but tromped out. When he was gone, Wyn leaned back in his chair and regarded Lady Melle over steepled fingers.

“It appears to have been a prank,” Lady Melle explained. “Cook received a note saying the queen was pining for lutefisk and eels, declaring it one of her favorites. Needless to say, that doesn’t appear to be true.”

They were seated in his private office in the western tower. To Wyn’s left, a wide window of leaded-glass panes looked out over the Minsk River valley far below. Not that you could see that valley now. Dark clouds cloaked Gildenheim in a heavy mist, harbinger of the afternoon storm that had rolled in like clockwork every day around noon for the past week. The storm should have already broken up, since Khamsin’s daily luncheon with her ladies had come to its unfortunate end over an hour ago, but his weatherwitch queen was working a different misery out in the sky today, and snow was falling with no sign of letting up anytime soon.

It was early for snow, even in Craig, but whether Khamsin’s daily storms or the Ice Heart was to blame, Wynter didn’t know.

“Apart from today’s unfortunate incident, how is my queen settling in?”

“Truthfully?”

Wyn gave a curt nod.

“She’s not.” Lady Melle threw up her hands in distress. “I’m sorry, my dearest, but the poor thing’s miserable. Our food doesn’t agree with her. She can’t ply a needle to save her life. The ladies tried reading some of their favorite novels to her, but she grew so restless and impatient, I thought we were going to have a tempest right there in the gathering hall. She likes the outdoors, but she hates having us following her, watching her every move. I thought she might like to take a trip with me down to Konundal, but she doesn’t ride, and when I suggested having a carriage brought round, well, I swear I nearly saw some of that lightning Lord Valik says she can call.”

Wyn grimaced. “Carriages don’t agree with her any better than lutefisk and eels.”

Lady Melle’s brows rose. “That would have been useful information to know before now, Wynter,” she said with an uncharacteristic snap in her voice.

Wyn closed his eyes against the sudden whip of icy temper rising inside him. Before drinking the Ice Heart, Lady Melle’s scold would have made him blush in shame. Now it made fury bite hard, the Ice King in him fuming at her impertinence. But Wynter would slit his own throat before allowing himself to harm, either by word or deed, the gentle, big-hearted woman who had been a surrogate mother to Garrick . . . and to himself, insomuch as he would let her. “You know it now, Lady Melle,” he said when he trusted himself to speak.

She heaved a sigh, oblivious to her own mortal peril. “Honestly, my boy, could you make this any more difficult? You don’t want her wandering all over the palace, you don’t want her walking alone outside, you don’t want her interfering in the running of the palace, the servants are up in arms over her attempt to interfere in their children’s education, and Wyrn knows she can’t sit still for any length of time. One short hour after our luncheon pushes her to the very limits of her endurance. I’ve had several ladies express their concern that she might lose her temper and strike us dead with a lightning bolt. Something must be done!”

“What do you suggest, Lady Melle?” One of the many admirable traits of Lady Melle, she never presented a problem without also offering a solution.

“She needs a friend, my dear. She’s a young girl in a strange place. She needs someone she can talk to. Someone she can do things with.”