Page 51

“The allocation uses household size.”

“Then it measures mouths and ignores cold.”

Sarveth steps closer. “You have entered this stronghold as a contracted bride, not its quartermaster.”

“I am reviewing the supplies that purchased my acceptance.”

I take the ledger from Fiona and study the figures. The northern row does receive less fuel despite its lower winter temperature. The rule is consistent and the result inefficient.

“Increase the northern allotment by one-fifth,” I say.

Sarveth’s indigo eyes fix on me. “From the household reserve?”

“Yes.”

“It will encourage further demands.”

“It corrects a flawed calculation.”

Fiona watches me close the ledger. No thanks follow. That is preferable to gratitude offered as performance.

The first exchange between us has already exposed two weaknesses in my household records.

Inconvenient, indeed.

Sarveth moves toward the bell. “Your chamber has been prepared.”

Fiona turns to her. “May I write to Lowtown?”

“Letters leaving the stronghold are inspected,” Sarveth says.

“By whom?”

“The household office.”

“Then I may write if I accept that nothing remains private.”

“You learn quickly.”

“I have been a human beneath dark elf rule my entire life.”

Sarveth summons a young human servant. The woman bows deeply, first to me and then to Fiona, uncertain how much courtesy the future lady deserves.

“Briar will show you to the eastern chamber,” Sarveth says.

“Fiona is sufficient until the contract is signed,” Fiona tells the servant.

Sarveth corrects her. “Mistress Holt.”

Fiona’s mouth presses into a hard line, but she offers no argument.

She retrieves her cloak from the receiving hall. Rather than hand it to Briar, she folds it over her own arm. The gesture denies the servant a task without humiliating her for offering.

Fiona pauses at the council-chamber door and looks back at me.

“Why me?”

The reports provide several answers.