When her brother did not immediately answer her, she stalked from the window over the courtyard to the other side of the tower, near the hearth. But not too near. If she felt too much of the heat upon her face, old burns protested in memory. She slipped a hand beneath her veil to feel the stiff scars. Every whorl had been etched there in fire and blood and pain. She had traced their edges so many times, physically and in her memory, in a sick ceremony to keep her heart hard. Concentrating on the pain of the burns had kept that other pain at bay for years. Now, that pain had ridden to her door, and it begged for shelter. Wilhelm stepped behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “He is wounded, sister. Would you refuse him aid?” “I would.” The answer took no thought, no examination of conscience. She had begged for aid, all those years ago. Her letters had gone unanswered, her maiden’s heart had aged in weeks, then years, leaving behind something far more like a wounded animal.
