The thread had knotted again. 

Elsbeth wanted to crumple the shift into the smallest ball she could and throw it across the room.  That, however, would attract the attention of her mother and her women, and the last thing she wanted was their sharp eyes upon her. 

They had begun sewing her wedding clothes. 

Elsbeth checked her fierce impulse to wad the garment up and fling it as hard as she could, laying it instead upon her lap and beginning, very slowly, to unravel the threads.  She was, supposedly, working on embroidering the cuffs of her wedding shift with interlacing of the entwined colors of Garland and of the Roth’s house, matching that she had done for Douglas’ betrothal gift; he would, if he held to the custom, wear that shirt for their wedding. 

In truth, she had made little progress all morning.  Her thoughts were elsewhere. 

The quiet in the room — or, more accurately, the easily ignored soft din of women’s low-voiced gossip and the even softer sounds of thread and cloth — gave no difficulty at all to returning in her memory, yet again, to the sound of Murrow’s voice, speaking her name after so many years, both thrilling and disturbing.  Even more disturbing, perhaps, had been the touch of his hand on hers, then the cooler skin of his forehead on the back of her hand. 

With an effort, she kept herself from cringing.  That, too, would certainly catch the interest of the other women.  She had not — had not — shivered when Murrow lowered his forehead and brushed the thin, tender skin of his brow across the back of her hand.  She couldn’t have, surely; she was too well-trained to allow such a loss of control.  And she had kept her voice steady, disinterested, when she answered him, she was certain. 

Maybe, she told herself, Murrow would come to believe — might even already believe — that he had merely imagined what he had seen in her face. 

That he had thought he had seen something was obvious, both from his own reaction and the quickness with which he changed the subject, presenting the new Brusterian fosterling, Colm, to her.  The boy was a kinsman of hers, Murrow had explained, the youngest son of her father’s sister, who had married one of the underkings of Bruster. 

He had asked her, then, to be as kind to Colm as she had been to him. 

There had been something in his voice, a small light in his eyes, that had made her breath catch, wondering what it meant.  At least, Elsbeth had thought she had heard that slight tremor, seen a glint.  Now, five days later, she questioned herself.  Had she really?  Or had she simply wanted to? 

Her fingers finished working the thread loose.  Re-threading her needle, Elsbeth began again on the cuff’s interlacing.  But in her mind, she saw the colors of Bruster, not of the Roth, coiling and curling with those of Garland, imagining a different match made, a wedding anticipated with joy rather than dread and reluctant acceptance.