“Yes. Of things I have no intention of doing.”
Dame Margaret made a sound in her throat that might have been a cough, or a prayer for patience, or the death rattle of her last thread of composure.
Belmaine’s gaze slid over Amelia once more, cold and assessing. Then he turned and left, taking most of the air with him.
The door shut and the lock turned. Joan whispered something that sounded very much like a word Amelia had last heard from Hob.
Dame Margaret turned slowly.
“Where did you learn that?” she asked.
Joan flushed scarlet. “The stables.”
Amelia sat on the edge of the bed before her knees did it for her. “Before dawn.”
“Aye,” Dame Margaret said.
“That’s bad.”
“It is not good.”
“Thank you. Very clarifying.”
Dame Margaret looked toward the door, then crossed to the bed and reached beneath it. She pulled out the poker and held it up.
Amelia winced. “In my defense, you gave it to me.”
Dame Margaret set it by the hearth again, though not as far from Amelia as it had been before. “You cannot remain in this room.”
“Funny, because there’s a lock that says otherwise.”
“You must speak with Father Martin before Sir Roger removes you.”
“Can you get me to him?”
Dame Margaret hesitated. “Yes, I can get you to the chapel,” she said. “I cannot promise what comes after.”
“That’s fine. I’ve rarely known what comes after since the day I arrived in this century.”
Joan blinked. “This what?”
Amelia closed her eyes briefly.
Dame Margaret’s gaze sharpened.
“Figure of speech,” Amelia said.
“I know many figures of speech,” Dame Margaret said. “That was not one.”
“Can we focus on the part where I’m scheduled for dawn delivery to a fake husband?”
“For now,” Dame Margaret said.
A few minutes later, Joan helped pin Amelia’s wimple properly, then gave up when two curls sprang loose immediately like tiny red rebels. Dame Margaret wrapped Amelia in her cloak and pressed a small heel of bread into her hand.
“Eat.”
“I had honey cake.”