Wink’s talons gripped her leather glove, and the falcon cocked its head, studying her mistress’s curving lips with its one good eye. “Such a bonnie lass,” Rose purred, bobbing her arm to make Wink spread her splendid wings. The falcon might be maimed, but to Rose, Wink was the most beautiful bird in her mother’s mews. Rose’s gaze roamed over the others—hooded gyrfalcons and tiercels and merlins caught in the wild, now leashed to their perches—and she furrowed her brow at the subtle reminder of her own imminent capture. “‘Twon’t be so bad, Wink,” she said, trying to convince herself as well as the bird. She swept her long sable hair back over her shoulder and smoothed the falcon’s wings into place. “I’m sure Sir Gawter will provide a fine, warm mews for ye.” And, she silently added—her brow creasing with displeasure—a fine, warm bed for her. She’d met Sir Gawter of Greymoor a fortnight ago. He’d been a homecoming surprise from Lady Agatha, Rose’s mother.
