“She does not have a husband,” Auber said, answering a question Remin had not asked.
“I’m sure that’s her business,” Remin replied equably.
“His father was a passing Eagle knight.” Auber gave the hood of his cloak a yank, as if he wanted to be sure it was concealing his face. “But I’m only a farmer’s son myself, it isn’t as if I have noble blood to disgrace.”
“I don’t know if it should matter if you did,” Remin said slowly, as it dawned on him that Auber was asking his permission. And that itwouldmatter a great deal to the rest of the Empire: the woman was bastard-born, judging by her ice-blonde hair and blue eyes, with an ice-blond bastard of her own. Hardly a fit wife for a knight. “Court her if you like her, Auber. I will only bless your happiness.”
It was the truth. And Remin’s spirits rose as he thought of gossiping about it with Ophele, as well as discussing the knottier question of whether heshouldcare about the lineage of his knights. Society was a ladder. Auber would be choosing to place himself and his offspring on a lower rung. But there were probably a good number of arguments either way and thinking about it made him feel tired and fuzzy, and it really was hard work, trudging through deep snow all day.
“Your hands are like ice,” Ophele said when he dragged himself home that evening. “Peri, could you call Magne up to run a bath for His Grace, please? And put out something warm to wear?”
“There is a blizzard outside,” Remin reminded her a little sourly as he thawed himself by the fire. She was exactly where he wanted her, inside and warm, but it was hard not to feel a bit resentful.
“Were you outside in it all day?”
“Shoveling snow.” His jaw tightened as heat lanced his fingertips. He glanced over his shoulder. “Lady Verr, Leonin, Davi, you are invited to supper. Juste will be back with it in about an hour.”
He could hardly send them down to the cookhouse for their meal in the middle of an endless blizzard, but Remin did not feel like sharing a noisy, crowded table that night. Davi and Leonin had volunteered to help with the chores around the manor since Sim and one of the stableboys had fallen ill, and Remin tried to pay attention as Miche and Juste obliquely discussed further interviews with Azelma. Ophele was vibrating between several poles of anxiety, with the additional burden of another dispute between Lady Verr and Master Tiffen to mediate.
He wasn’t sure whether that was the cause of the worried glances she kept sending his way, and he hoped she would just tell him what the problem was instead of making him guess. Remin picked at his supper and wished everyone would go away.
“Are you all right?” Ophele asked him in their bedchamber later.
“Yes,” he said, giving himself a shake. He had been all but dozing in his chair. “Do you need help with the Imperial Code again?”
“No, I’m all right. I am a little tired,” she said, taking his hand. “Would you lie down with me?”
There was nothing in this world he would have liked more.
“Make sure you’re staying warm,” he said as she pulled the blankets over them both and nestled at his side. “Remember what Juste said about Sim? You shouldn’t take sickness lightly. Gen says there’s a fever in town, too. Don’t go near the cottages, I don’t want you breathing sick air.”
“I won’t,” she promised, and the last thing he felt before he fell asleep was her deliciously cool hand on his forehead.
***
“It’s just a cough,” a rasping Remin assured her the next morning, as he sat in his chair to pull on his boots.
“You were just telling me last night not to take sickness lightly,” Ophele protested. “It doesn’t count if it’s you? Can’t it wait until you feel better?”
“No. It looks like the storm’s clearing off and Miche is leaving tomorrow. There’s a lot to do.”
“Andyouhave to do it?” she asked anxiously, reaching once more for his forehead. People were always doing that in books, and his forehead was very hot and even beaded with a few drops of sweat, so obviously there was a fever, but what was she supposed to do about it?
“Yes.” Standing, he stooped automatically to kiss her, and then thought the better of it. “Don’t worry, wife. During the war, everyone came down sick with it, both us and Valleth. We used to stand in the snow and cough at each other. Some years I think it was Genon and his tonics that won the battle.”
“All right,” she said dubiously.
“I’ll be inside most of the day, anyway,” he added, and Ophele’s eyebrows drew together in her own version of aferocious scowl as she watched him go out the front door, carrying a muffler and mitts in his bare hands.
She did not have much experience of sickness. Ophele couldn’t remember the last time she had been sick herself, and the folk of Aldeburke had hardly needed her to nurse them. At most there had been Azelma, who used to ask for tea and dry toast when she was feeling poorly, and made soup and porridge for others.
“Miche?” Ophele had donned her cloak and muffler and boots and headed directly for his cottage, hoping he had not yet left for the day. “Are you there?”
“A moment,” she heard from inside, muffled through the thick door, and after the promised moment, Miche appeared in a loose shirt and breeches. “My lady?”
“Remin is sick,” she said, too worried for preamble.
“Is he?”
