On the day of the feast, Morwen dressed in Aranel's room. She wore a new gown beneath one of Aranel's robes. It was deeper than saffron and made of a material so thin that Morwen had mistaken it for a slip, at first. The sheer overdress was studded over in silver flowers that reminded her of the little white cenedril growing in Imloth Melui. Her cousin's wife had to lend her everything else, since a feast had not entered into her plans when she decided to leave Lossarnach. Many of Aranel's things had to be unpacked as well and her trunks lined one wall of her dressing room.

Morwen paced the floor while she waited for Aranel to finish dressing. She felt time passing too slowly around her and her stomach squeezed uneasily. Meeting Steward Turgon was of utmost importance and the closer to the event the more her patience evaporated. She tried to remember what she could about the man, but it had been years since she had seen either the Steward or his son for herself. Her last contact with Lord Turgon had been a lengthy note expressing his sorrow on the passing of her father.

She reviewed what she would do. Explain the facts, such as they were. Then she would trust to his long friendship with Randir.

"Morwen, you're making me nervous. Why don't you find some shoes to wear? They should be in the trunk near the door," Aranel said. She sat in a chair facing the mirror while Dineth arranged her hair. She could see Morwen's profile reflected in the glass.

Morwen stood in front of the trunk and frowned. "Everything will have to be repacked," she said. "I'm sorry I've delayed your trip."

"Don't be. It's given me a few more days to say goodbye to Minas Tirith." She lowered her voice. "I'd never admit it to Adrahil, but I was feeling sort of lonesome not knowing when we would return next."

"Miss Minas Tirith?"

Aranel smiled at Morwen's skeptical expression. "I'm not like Adrahil. He spent his whole life traveling back and forth between Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith. So he feels at home in both cities. But I grew up here and I shall miss Minas Tirith very much once we're gone. Adrahil knows that. It's the reason why he arranged to stay here for our first year. It was a nice thought, but I think we'll both relax once we're in Belfalas."

"But you sound like you don't want to go."

"Oh, I do, especially since Mother has been underfoot so much."

Morwen ducked her head to hide her expression. Adrahil's complaint to her on the day she turned up on their doorstep had not been unfounded, she had discovered. Lady Rían treated the Prince's home as her second and the woman had a tendency to raise hackles wherever she went. Morwen winced, recalling the string of harried shopkeepers they'd left behind in Lady Rían's wake.

"I suppose you'll miss her," Morwen added a little too late.

Aranel laughed dryly as if she could read Morwen's mind on the subject. "It will be a relief not having to mediate between my mother and my husband, but I know that I'll be homesick. Who knows how much?" Aranel frowned, but then rallied. She reached behind her to pat her maid on the arm. "Fortunately, I'll have Dineth with me."

Dineth nodded. "Yes, my lady — and the Prince. You won't have time to feel sorry for yourself between us."

"Perhaps you can come back often." Morwen cast a wondering eye over all the trunks. It wouldn't be a small feat to move the Princess. These few trunks only held Aranel's personal items. The Gwaelin, Adrahil's ship, waited on the Harlond, groaning with all the other trunks that contained wedding gifts and household items. That still didn't include the presents they had received that would stay in the Minas Tirith house. She wouldn't have credited it before, but weddings were a lucrative transaction if Adrahil and Aranel were anything to go by.

No wonder Halmir had thought of it! The thought tasted like bile.

"Maybe. Adrahil's mother is looking forward to my help running the household. There will be so much to do I doubt I could come away often."

"Delegate the tasks so you can travel between Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith as often as you like. I certainly don't do everything myself."

Aranel gave Morwen's reflection in the mirror a penetrating look, as if she knew better. What tales had Adrahil told her?

"I don't intend to, but if I keep disappearing from Dol Amroth people will begin to question my loyalty to Adrahil and my commitment to the fief. I chose this life with my eyes open and now I have to live it."

Morwen tightened the sash on the robe. "But why did you marry Adrahil if it means you'll be unhappy?"

Dineth, who was also watching from the mirror, cringed, laid down the brush, and turned to Morwen to loosen the knot. "You'll wrinkle the dress, my lady," she whispered.

"Oh, sorry," Morwen mumbled.

"Homesickness isn't the same as unhappiness, Morwen. I married Adrahil because I fell in love, and more often than not love means giving a few things up. Your father gave up Minas Tirith, too, didn't he?"

Aranel closed her eyes as Dineth began to apply an oil to her hair that smelled faintly of oranges. Then she twisted Aranel's hair and anchored with combs at the nape of her neck.

Morwen wrinkled her nose. "I hardly think leaving Minas Tirith for Lossarnach counts as a sacrifice."

Aranel smiled knowingly. She gave her hair a quick review and then waved Dineth away. Rising, she stood beside Morwen.

"Here, sit down so Dineth can arrange your hair."

Morwen allowed herself to be led away from the trunk, submitting to Dineth. Her muscles felt tense from prolonged delay, but before she could climb the citadel gate tunnel toward Merethrond, there were necessary steps.

"How do you want it, my lady?" Dineth asked.

Morwen looked to Aranel for help.

"I think a natural look will suit Morwen best. You have a nice wave, Morwen."

"Loose it is," Dineth answered. "And some argon to smooth the flyaways. It'll be a humid in the great hall."

Flyaways. If only Gildis could see her now! Although, she had Gildis to thank that this process was far less painful than it had been at Lossemeren. Aranel had even complimented the fine arch of her eyebrows the day before, which made Morwen nearly hug herself. Poor Gildis.

Aranel took Morwen's place at the trunk. She considered, reached into the controlled chaos within, and pulled out gold slippers.

"My mother will be disappointed you didn't choose the green gown she liked. That's always very popular this time of year. These gold slippers would have gone well with them. But between green and yellow, you chose best. You needed a warm color." She found another pair of delicate white silk. "Here, try these."

Morwen held the white slippers to the fabric around her waist. "Green and yellow are the first colors of spring and the last colors of summer," Morwen mused. "Green grass. Yellow flowers."

"It's a natural combination. But I think…no." She tossed the white pair back in and dug around until she found a silver pair. "Here. These will go well with the silver embroidery on your gown."

Morwen wiggled her toes experimentally in the new slippers, and said, "I couldn't really tell. How did you decide?"

"Practice. It's not my first state function."

"Oh. I've never been to anything but my blossom festival." She winced as Dineth began to comb her hair.

"Did I hurt you, my lady?" Dineth asked.

Morwen gave her an apologetic smile. "No, but I thought you were going to."

Aranel sat in the chair next to the dressing table, surveying Dineth's work. Morwen felt herself relax when no snarls reared their ugly heads. Who knew that having her hair brushed by someone else could feel so nice? She realized that Gildis might have been using the brush to communicate her frustration. Maybe she would send Ioneth to Dol Amroth to learn a few things from Dineth. On second thought, the girl would probably run off with the first fisherman to wink at her.

Morwen felt a pang of longing in her chest. She missed all of them, even silly Ioneth and clumsy Gundor!

"You'll enjoy tonight. We'll make sure of it," Aranel said, mistaking the forlorn expression on Morwen's face. "Adrahil and I will take care of everything. We'll find you dance partners and when you're tired of dancing, there's the banquet. When you're tired of the banquet, there's the gardens – although you didn't here that from me."

"Gardens?" Morwen felt her heart lift. She missed being surrounded by green! "I didn't know there were any in the citadel."

"You can't have a feast hall without gardens to help couples disappear."

Morwen sighed. "I'm really only going for one reason, Aranel, which is—"

"To see Prince Thengel again?" Aranel quipped, winking at Dineth.

Morwen gaped at Aranel, but Dineth snorted softly.

Aranel tapped the vanity counter. "You've kept mum on the subject and I am dying to know what you think of him. He's so rarely in Minas Tirith these days and he only travels wherever Ecthelion tells him to. Nobody ever gets him as a guest. Yet, from what I've gathered via my sources, he stayed at Bar-en-Ferin for at least a week."

"Your sources?" Morwen's fingers closed around the neck of the dressing gown, feeling surrounded by Aranel's spies.

Aranel laughed. "Don't look so prim. I'm teasing."

"Aranel, there's very little to tell you," Morwen told her gravely. "It's not as if I invited him. He didn't mean to…"

"Fine, keep your secrets. I know you only want to see the Steward. Still, it's a celebration. You have to dance and enjoy yourself. I thought, well, you have at least one acquaintance…"

"Tell me about Steward Turgon," Morwen interrupted. "My memory is very dim."

Aranel gave her a look that suggested Morwen was off the hook now, but later there would be a reckoning.

"How to describe the Steward? Hmm." Aranel tapped her lips. "He's a grave man, terse at times. My father would describe him as peppery. He is very learned and his gaze is far-reaching, they say."

Morwen nodded. "I remember my father saying that Ecthelion was a man of action, but that Turgon was a man of thought."

"He is both," said Adrahil, who materialized out of nowhere to lean on the doorframe between his dressing room and Aranel's. "He thinks and therefore others act, which is sort of the same thing."

Aranel swiveled around to smile at her husband, who looked resplendent in silver that looked well with Aranel's lapis gown.

"Are you ready so soon?" Morwen asked.

Adrahil crossed the room to give Aranel a kiss. "I've been ready since dinner."

"All the Prince had to do was change his tunic and make sure his boots were clean," Dineth quipped.

"True. But no one will care what I look like, especially when my wife and cousin are in the room." He turned to Morwen. "Are you pleased with the gown?"

Morwen gently pinched the gauzy fabric between her fingers and watched it spill away like water.

"The only thing I regret," Morwen mused, "is that Halmir's right."

Aranel's expression clouded. "About what?"

Morwen made a sour face. "That yellow suits me."

Aranel waved the thought away. "As if he had anything to do with your complexion."

"I know."

"Think of it as representing the gold banner of Lossarnach," Adrahil said. "And you look beautiful. Aranel told me you would and she is never wrong."

"Not often," Aranel laughed. "At least where dresses are concerned."

Leave it to Adrahil to turn a compliment to Morwen into a compliment to his bride. Morwen didn't mind really. It was better than Halmir's habit of using compliments as backhanded insults. Besides, she had grown to like Aranel very much during the three days she had spent with them so far and it was true that she had excellent taste. The dress fit Morwen like a…well, it fit her. The cut fit her in all the right places and little resembled the styles that were popular when Hirwen was Morwen's age. She hadn't worn a dress that hadn't first belonged to her mother since Valar knows when. They had been taken in and taken up until she turned thirteen and began to surpass her mother in height, in which case Gildis became adept at letting dresses down.

"Yes," she said with a trace of wonder in her voice. "I'm very surprised it came together so quickly. I didn't think it was possible."

Aranel smirked. "Mother and I have connections."

"And the currency of persuasion," Adrahil added dryly.

Aranel tipped her head to the side. "And what currency is that?"

"Coin. What else? Or so says my ledger." He winked. "I think we'll find a few dressmakers in the city who were lately able to enjoy an early retirement thanks to three noble patronesses."

"All for the greater good, I assure you." Aranel gave his arm a squeeze. "We have to look our best for the Steward and his friends, old and new."

Adrahil's eyebrows disappeared nearly into his hairline. "Ah, yes."

Morwen feigned interest in the bottle of argon and orange blossom oil that Dineth had used on her hair. There was an undercurrent to the conversation that Morwen understood perfectly well and yet she wondered how she could have misrepresented the situation of the last few weeks to her cousins to make them speculate as they were doing. After all, despite Aranel's many hints, she had held her tongue about her guest. If she wouldn't tell them anything, how could they assume anything?

…

"Why are you waiting out here?"

Thengel looked up at Wynflaed from where he sat under the one tree in the sorry looking garden in the front of his house. Weeds were winning the land war and some were making headway in the cracked pavers. Shabby. Even the tree looked scruffy. Which ancient founder of this house had chosen a dirty birch shedding catkins all over the place? He'd come to enjoy a few minutes of solitude before the feast and the cooling air, but had found the space less inviting than he realized.

He shrugged. "The garden needs an overhaul."

His sister snorted. "You only noticed now?"

Wynflaed surprised him by sitting down in the empty space next to him. She had dressed in the traditional white of the women of the House of Eorl and something in her manner seemed to dare him to take exception to it.

"I'm a busy man, believe it or not." Then he said, "You look nice."

"Hmph."

The front doors opened and Oswin trundled down the front steps in a blaze of green and gold pomp with Eriston in tow. The servant gave Thengel a resigned look. His uncle's beard looked trimmed and less flyaway and his braids were freshly set. Eriston had worked something of a miracle on Oswin. It was probably time to discuss giving the poor man a bump in his wages.

Unfortunately, the small detail of his uncle's matching tunic made Thengel grimace. He understood what they were doing now, but didn't find the show of solidarity necessary.

Eriston had foisted Thengel into a mysterious green tunic with gold knotwork on the sleeves, collar and hem, which he had never laid eyes on before. He suspected Oswin and Wynflaed had something to do with its appearance in his wardrobe, but now he knew for sure. He preferred to wear the customary black and silver of the Tower of Guard for these functions, but that outfit was nowhere to be found. He knew all too well that Wynflaed had managed to press Eriston into service, irresistible force that she was.

"Why am I being rolled out of the house at this hour? I was told this béorscipe didn't start till long after sundown."

Thengel got up and brushed off whatever catkins might have joined him. "The sun is almost spent, Uncle, and I promised Ecthelion to come as early as possible."

Wynflaed tossed her loose hair over her shoulder and seemed to tense for battle as she rose. "Forward, then."

When Thengel offered her his arm, she eyed it warily.

"What?" she asked, "is something wrong with your sleeve?"

"It's considered courteous in Gondor to offer a lady one's arm," he answered with exaggerated patience.

Wynflaed rolled her eyes. "And shame myself in front of the warriors? No."

Thengel lowered his arm. "Suit yourself."

Oswin cleared his throat causing Wynflaed to pull a face. As they passed through his gate, he could see some inner windmill slowly churning in her mind. Surreptisiously she slipped her arm through his.

"Don't tell me you just sprained your ankle," he muttered.

"If these women think that hobbling along with a perfectly healthy woman on your arm is some mark of virtue, then we can't afford to have you lose face. They need to think you're agreeable."

"Despite the truth, you mean?"

She shrugged.

They didn't speak as they were drawn into the tide of people wending their way toward the seventh circle. At the citadel gate, the guards recognized Thengel and held back the other pedestrians so they could pass through the tunnel with better ease.

Thengel led Wynflaed and Oswin through the tunnel that ended at the Court of the Fountain. As they neared the fountain, Thengel saw that someone had festooned the crippled tree with silver ribbon to mask the gloom and decay. Candles floated on little silver boats in the fountain, their light catching on the ribbons and casting a soft shimmer like little stars over the water. Thengel stopped to observe it.

Oswin shook his head. "There's a light in the house, but no master."

"No," Thengel agreed, "but servants still faithfully care for house."

Wynflaed looked askance at her brother and uncle. "All I see is a fancy trough. Let's go."

Beyond the tree, the white spike of stone that formed the Tower of Ecthelion loomed over them. Revelers who had not merited an invitation to the feast in Merethrond crowded the courtyard and looked like so many colorful flowers beneath the white trunk of a grand tree. Their laughter echoed against the high battlements and buildings of the seventh circle, enjoying the warm spring evening and the free eatables and music provided to the public by the Steward whenever there was a closed function. Children cut across Thengel's path flailing streamers he recognized from Tegilbor's shop.

The king's house lay beyond the Tower. Thengel led them to the right, following in the wake of the Steward's guests. The doors of Merethrond were opened wide and the strength of many lights glowed from within, pooling out into the courtyard. Servants waited at the door to check names against a long list of guests. When they arrived at the foot of the stairs leading down into the great hall, they didn't wait for the herald to appear to announce them. Their bright hair and pale complexions did that for them.

It looked like all of Minas Tirith had also promised Ecthelion to arrive early. With some effort, Thengel found him standing apart with the deputies from Esgaroth, who looked coldly on the bustle of servants making last minute alterations under the direction of Lady Rían. His companions looked like men who had resigned themselves to the constant awe-inducing splendor of Gondor's first city. Thengel had fellow feeling for them. He could remember clearly his own reaction to the opulence before him, without one of Teitharion's paintings to remind him. Only the Dwarf seemed immune to amazement, perhaps owing to his residence in the courts of the Lonely Mountain and the cultural memory of Moria.

Ecthelion looked relieved to see him.

"Friends, here at last is Prince Thengel. Ah, Marshal Oswin is known to you, but I do not think you have yet met Thengel's delightful sister, Lady Wynflaed, a shieldmaiden of the Mark of Rohan."

Delightful?

They bowed. Thengel shook hands with a grizzled man maybe twenty years older than himself. He was Thengel's own height, which meant that Ecthelion towered over both of them. And his hair had more or less tipped the balance on the side of gray, while his beard was curiously deep rusty color with only a few shots of gray near his ears.

"Lady Wynflaed, this is Egil," Ecthelion said. "And this young man is his nephew Rurik. "

Rurik had black hair and the same rusty-red beard, but looked about the same age as Thengel. Both men had been members of the last defense of Lake-town under Bard. Now they served as the king's lieutenants while the newly restored kingdom of Esgaroth found its legs.

"And this is Frár, deputy to Dain, King Under the Mountain."

The Dwarf bowed a second time. "At your service, my lady."

Wynflaed surveyed them all with unveiled interest. It was no secret that she felt cheated out of a battle and that the petty skirmishes with orcs and Dunlendings on their borders had grown tiresome. Her sword arm ached for better sport. She regarded Frár.

"Were you with Oakenshield's party?" she asked.

Frár's eyes kindled. "No, madam. I hail from the Iron Hills and have served King Dain all my life."

"Do you find Minas Tirith to your liking?"

Frár's beard twitched. "Interesting masonry. I would have made a few choices differently — as a professional, you understand."

"Then is the city not what you expected?" Ecthelion asked, piqued.

"My people do not travel so far south in these days of doubt, but the rumor of the craftsmanship of the Númenóreans has long been held in memory. By and large, it exceeds the stories."

That sounded generous. Thengel had nothing to say about the masonry that would interest a Dwarf, much less himself. He let his attention wander over the hall.

"Where is Idhren?" he murmured to Ecthelion.

"Damned if I know," he groused. "By the way, make sure you save her a dance, will you? She's always happier when you're around."

Thengel grunted. "Only because when I'm around it usually means you're around too."

"Well she's in a foul mood tonight and I only made it worse. She and Belehir's wife are at each other's throats like two cats in an alley. I told her if she didn't like Lady Rían's choices, she ought to have planned this thing herself and save me the earful I'm going to get from Lord Belehir."

"Yes, he did say that," Idhren drawled from somewhere behind them.

They turned on their heels like guilty children, but Idhren had already dismissed them. Smiling beguilingly to the guests of honor, they stood stupefied in her presence. Even Oswin looked bemused. Her hair was arranged in a dark crown around her head, adorned with combs of gold flowers. She wore a gown of deceptively meek lavender that pooled and folded around her like a waterfall.

"Rurik, I'm so pleased to see that you've met Lady Wynflaed," she said, holding out a hand to each of them.

Rurik swallowed hard. "Yes, Lady Idhren?"

"Wynflaed, do you..eh…what's it called again, Rurik? That charming dance you told me about?"

"Jigging, my lady," he said gravely.

"Jigging. Yes." Idhren's eyes sparkled with humor. "I've arranged for the dancing to open with one of yours from back home - at least, it's as close as I could get according to your description. The players seem to know what to do. Lady Rían's program had to be entirely rearranged, but that is neither here nor there. Wynflaed, my love, I'm sure Rurik couldn't ask for a more charming partner to…jig with."

Rurik bowed at the waist. Thengel had the unnerving experience of seeing his sister, though slab-faced and inscrutable, blush. Whatever tune Idhren had decided to play, these people were going to dance to it, quite literally.

"Now, gentlemen, I hope you won't mind if I steal Prince Thengel away."

Ecthelion's eyes rounded up to the ceiling. "You know very well they won't," he muttered.

Idhren gave him an arch smile, then led Thengel away to the foot of the stairs where they were hidden in the crowd.

"Now, darling, I've done my best by you and found out the names of some likely partners ahead of time. Let me do the negotiating."

Thengel frowned. "Oh?"

"Yes. My altruism ends at one point," she warned. "You and I are to open the dance."

"Shouldn't that honor belong to one of Turgon's guests?" Or, I don't know, Ecthelion, he thought.

Idhren pretended to smooth away a loose strand of hair. "Egil or Frár, you mean?"

"I do."

"No, dear. Frár has asked to be excluded from the pleasure of dancing, the reason being rather obvious. As for Egil, I've saved that honor for Lady Rían." Her eyes narrowed. "She could use a jig."

"You can't let her have all the honors."

"I can if it means having my way elsewhere," Idhren reflected. Then she pressed a finger into Thengel's chest. "And don't you interfere."

He held his hands up. "I won't. You know me. I'm perfectly satisfied to be led by you."

She smiled. "Good."

Then he said, "What about Ecthelion?"

Her smile remained fixed, but it began to stale. "He's keeping Frár company since his father won't be here tonight."

"No? What's the matter with Turgon?"

"Oh, gout? Rheumatism? Whatever it is that ails old men. I think he just isn't in the mood for people and since he's the Steward, who's going to make him?"

"So he's up in his tower all by himself?"

"Quite comfortable, but not by himself."

"Oh?"

"If he isn't going to be a good host here, we've sent Denethor to keep him company. It felt like the right sort of penance. A grumpy old man and his moody grandson." Idhren laughed. "You know, that was Ecthelion's idea. He can be brilliant in more than military matters when he exerts himself."

"I think you should dance with him, Idhren."

Idhren smiled and greeted a familiar couple. She murmured, "I will once I've made him properly jealous."

He gave her a stern look. "Jealous?"

"Shh. It's his punishment for running off to Ithilien so soon."

Thengel winced. "He told you that, did he?"

"As if I couldn't tell," she huffed, frowning for the first time. "And shame on you for letting him keep it a secret. You know, I wish someone would teach him how to delegate - or else shoot him in the knee. Then at least I'd have him home for more than two months together. Denethor needs his father to show him how to grow up."

"Have you told Ecthelion that?" he asked gently.

"More than once. Next I shall threaten to send the boy to Ithilien with him." She grabbed Thengel's arm. "Oh lord, here comes Rían. She's going to start barking about the changes I made to the music. Let's take our places on the floor before she catches us."

…

Morwen's first impression of the great hall of Merethrond was of the inside of a soup tureen. The humid air from the crush of people below made her dress stick to her back while they waited at the top of the stairs. It was odd to gather everyone inside, she thought. She was more used to dancing out of doors in the unrestricted air with nothing more than the valley walls hemming them in.

Adrahil and Aranel had gotten ahead of her in the press. She had to duck around a family of many daughters to take her place behind them on the landing. Then an unfamiliar voice echoed her name from the staircase into the cavernous space and a sudden self-consciousness possessed her.

Most of the eyes that turned their way were attracted by the names of the Prince and Princess of Dol Amroth rather than by the obscure young woman in their charge. But the exposure to so many unknown people at once felt new to Morwen and she stood, legs paralyzed, on the top step. She kneaded her fingers together without thinking.

…

"Lord Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, Lady Aranel, Princess of Dol Amroth. Lady Morwen of Lossarnach."

Thengel broke Idhren's grip and swiveled around toward the staircase as those names seemed to strike him in the chest. That she would be here tonight had not entered his mind. But there Morwen stood, tall and fair and gray-eyed. Fresh and slim like a lily from the south.

Something seemed wrong, though. She wasn't sailing down the steps with the self-possession of the lady of Imloth Melui that he had come to know, but seemed to shrink back. He recognized the symptom of distress from Lossemeren.

"Oh, I thought the Prince and Princess were on their way to Dol Amroth," he heard Idhren say. "Very handsome couple, though her mother is such a pain. Look."

But he only saw Morwen. He held his breath for her, hating so many people seeing her discomfited.

Unclasp your hands, he willed.

And then, Béma, she did!

Thengel breathed. He stepped toward her, feeling gratified, like something had opened in his chest to take her in. When he first saw her in Bar-en-Ferin, he hadn't known about the flesh and blood woman beneath the imperious plate she wore. He could tell now, see the steps in the way she donned her armor. Shoulders back, arms loose by her side, the upward tilt of her chin, eyes sharp. Centered, she dared others to flow around her the way a stream is parted by a solid rock. She descended into the fray and he moved to meet her.

Idhren's hand materialized on his arm, holding him like an anchor. "Come along. The guests will stampede if the dancing doesn't begin soon."

"Can't it wait a moment?"

Hurt flashed through Idhren's eyes but disappeared in an instant. She looked around but didn't see anyone of interest. "Why, am I interrupting a tryst?" she asked dryly.

"No," he grumbled.

"Then come. You did say you were satisfied to be led by me."

Unable to break his promise to his friend, he allowed her to lead him away. He looked back, but quickly lost sight of Morwen in the crowd gathering around the Prince and Princess of Dol Amroth.

…

The onlooking guests scattered parted like startled geese around a collie as Lady Rían charged toward her daughter. Morwen braced herself as soon as the older woman opened to mouth.

"You're here at last!"

Aranel kissed her mother's flushed cheek. "We're earlier than usual, Mother. Where's Father?"

"Skulking somewhere, leaving me to defend myself against treacherous women," Lady Rían sniffed. "Aranel, I'm ruined. Completely ruined."

"Ruined, Mother?"

"Lord Turgon decided to stay home tonight. Pains in his legs, he says. I've never been more slighted in my life."

"Lord Turgon isn't here?" Morwen asked, crestfallen.

"No, child," Lady Rían replied, looking down her nose at Morwen, whom she had forgotten about.

Another day wasted with no progress and no plan. What was she doing in Minas Tirith? The back of her eyes prickled as frustration welled up from within. She couldn't afford to waste time, not when her instincts told her that Halmir would use her absence to create mischief. Leaving home had been a poor move and she tasted bitter regret on her tongue.

Oblivious to the distress she dished out, Lady Rían droned on. "After all the effort I've put in to this evening when his daughter-in-law couldn't be bothered, I expected better treatment. A little gratitude goes a long way."

"No one will blame you for Steward Turgon's absence, Mother" Morwen heard Aranel murmur Both of her cousins were giving her worried glances.

"If only that were all. Now Lady Idhren has decided to open the dance with Prince Thengel and leave all the dirty work to me." Lady Rían jerked her shoulders like a turkey ruffling its feathers. "I have the dubious honor of opening the dance with that scruffy old Egil from Lake-town. I was hoping to fob him off on Lady Idhren. And then she changed the music! I swear—

"Mother, please remember where you are."

Lady Rían harrumphed. "I don't see why I should have suffer being dragged around the room like a bolster simply because my husband is the Keeper of the Keys."

Morwen's heart skipped a beat. Prince Thengel. Her eyes instinctively swept the room for him, but with the crowd of recently arriving guests bottling up at the foot of the stairs to observe the fuss, she couldn't find him. Without thinking, Morwen began to pleat her skirt between her fingers.

Lady Rían noticed the abuse and pursed her lips. "Ah, that's the dress you decided on for her, Aranel? I thought you were considering the green one?"

Morwen's attention snapped back to Lady Rían. "I chose this, actually."

"Oh?" she sniffed. "Well. Good for you for carrying it off. I always look like a corpse in yellow. Dreadful thing."

"You could hardly blame that on the color," Morwen observed quietly.

Beside her, Adrahil coughed. "Er, we better present ourselves to Lord Ecthelion and his guests."

Lady Rían drew herself up to her full but insubstantial height, like a martyr greeting the flames. "Yes, it is time to do my duty in the name of the White Tree and fetch that Egil fellow. If tonight's entertainment doesn't result in diplomatic success with Esgaroth, it won't be my fault."

…

The musicians were tuning their instruments, but the guests had taken their cue from Lady Idhren and were filling the remaining corners of the open floor. Thengel waited with Idhren at the top of the floor when a curious sight caused him to question his senses.

"So, that's Rurik leading my sister to the dance," Thengel observed. "He really managed it."

"Why, I think it is," Idhren replied airily.

"How on earth did you do it?"

"I might have hinted to Rurik beforehand and I might have hinted to Wynflaed that it would be worth her while if she kept out of my way tonight."

Thengel tried to catch Wynflaed's eye, but his sister stubbornly stared at Rurik's hairline.

"Why would you inflict that on the king's deputies?" he asked. "I thought they were on a peaceful mission."

Idhren gently swatted his arm. "Hush. You're not very gallant toward Wynflaed. Anyway, I had an inkling, that's all. Did you know that Ecthelion and she have become bosom friends?"

"Bosom friends?"

She waved her hand vaguely in the air. "Or whatever you want to call it. I couldn't get him to leave the war room these days even if I stood on a table without any clothes on. He visits her at the sparing grounds."

"Are you…"

"I didn't believe it at first," she went on, "I sent Niniel down after them and sure enough, they were hacking away at each other with real swords! The arms master said they refused the wooden practice ones. And she doesn't relent. Clearly nobody told her you aren't supposed to dice up the future Steward."

"Are you jealous that he's spending time with her?"

She snorted, surprising him. "Jealous? She isn't sleeping with him, Thengel. If she wants to whack him with a sword, she has my blessing. It saves me a lot of trouble. She cut him pretty badly on the arm once when you were in Lossarnach. You know he was so thrilled he came home and paid my embroidery a compliment. He's never noticed before." She continued, "that's when it occurred to me - if she hit it off with Ecthelion, she won't care a jot for most of the men here. They're too polished. But Rurik is one of those crusty wilderland types. And I was right. It should keep her distracted all night so you won't have any trouble with her."

Thengel hugged her. "Idhren, you're an angel."

"I know."

"I never knew you were a consummate strategist."

She looked smug. "I married the Steward's only son, didn't I?"

"But that was love."

The musicians struck the first notes of the song Idhren had chosen for Rurik. She turned Thengel to face her and placed her hand in his.

"Oh, child," she sighed. "Love needs a little push sometimes. Now jig."

…

While Aranel charmed Egil and smoothed her mother's ruffled feathers in an attempt to edge them toward the dance, Lord Ecthelion bowed over Morwen's hand. She tried not to stare at the marvelous scar over his eye, which made him look more than a little dangerous.

Which, she realized, as the captain of the Tower of Guard, he was. And this was Prince Thengel's best friend.

"So," he said, "you're the woman who harbored Prince Thengel. No wonder he took his time returning home."

Morwen felt heat rising along her throat. "I was told his uncle had more to do with that," she said gravely.

The captain grinned. "You know something about that, do you? Pity you just missed Marshal Oswin. He and Frár have gone to keep my father company in the Tower."

"Frár is the Dwarf delegate from the Lonely Mountain," Adrahil added. "We're sorry we won't have the pleasure of meeting Steward Turgon again, Captain. He and Morwen's father were good friends."

Lord Ecthelion bowed his head. "So they were."

Aranel joined them after seeing her mother off. "Captain, there is some bad blood between our families tonight. Perhaps you and I can heal the breach?" She held out her hand.

"With pleasure, Princess, seeing as my remaining charges are in good hands. Excuse me, Lady Morwen."

With a bow, Ecthelion followed Aranel onto the dance floor.

Adrahil and Morwen watched them go with similar looks of bemused admiration. Morwen wondered how a person raised by Lady Rían could learn to take a situation in hand with such elegance.

"Well, everyone's been organized except for us." Adrahil smiled down at her. "Look, I want you to forget what's going on at home and enjoy yourself. Aranel wants so badly for you to have a good time. She's going to worry about you now that Turgon hasn't come. With her recent illness, I'd hate for her evening to be spoiled."

"Well, for Aranel's sake, then," she agreed with only a hint of a crisp edge in her tone.

"Yes, for Aranel's sake." Then he said. "Now we'd better find you a partner. Do you know anyone here besides Prince Thengel?"

"I imagine some of Father's old friends are around." She wasn't certain if any of them could still walk without a prop, though.

Adrahil pulled a face. "That won't do. Let's muck around till I find one of my friends. It'll be easier once we get a few introductions out of the way."

Morwen laughed. "Why don't you just write up a letter of introduction for me to pass around?"

He tried to imitate one of Prince Angelimir's stern expressions. "Introductions are necessary formality, Morwen. And if we don't have formalities, what do we have?"

"Natural behavior?"

Adrahil shook his head with mock severity. "That would never do." Then his face lightened up. "Ah, just the fish we need. Bait the hook, Morwen."

"What are you talking about?"

"Ugh. Smile, for star's sake."

"Oh."

A handsome man in a deep red tunic approached them. His hair cascaded down his back in heavy curls that reminded her of Halmir, until she squashed the comparison - for Aranel's sake. He shook hands with Adrahil.

"Hullo, I didn't know you were still in Minas Tirith. Didn't I hear you were off to Dol Amroth?"

"We were delayed. By happy chance, my cousin has come to us." Adrahil nudged Morwen forward.

The man smiled at Morwen politely and his dark eyes caught her attention. "Would you do me the honor of introducing me?"

Adrahil inclined his head. "Morwen, this is Lord Daeron, kinsman to Lord Drambor of Lebennin. Daeron, Lady Morwen of Lossarnach."

"Lossarnach! I call that providential. You and I are nearly neighbors." Daeron reached for her hand and bowed over it. "I can see which fief keeps the most beautiful flowers for itself."

Morwen cringed at the overly honeyed expression, but Adrahil looked pleased at a job well done. She could read his mind and knew what he had planned. The musicians were playing a lively tune and dancers swirled around the floor. She thought she caught a glimpse of gold hair. Her heart leapt again, which only sent a responding thrill of annoyance through her. Her feelings were hurt and she needed to remember that!

"If it wouldn't displease you, my lady, would you honor me with a dance?"

Morwen blinked stupidly, as her attention returned closer to home. That was what she disliked about Minas Tirith. This young man knew very well that she had no polite way to refuse whether she liked it or not without offending her hosts and disappointing Adrahil.

"Thank you, Lord Daeron. I will."

Adrahil beamed. "Splendid. You two have a lot in common. Daeron here's an enthusiast for poetry." He laughed at a joke only he understood.

Morwen gave Adrahil an alarmed look. What was she supposed to do with that? Satisfied that he had done his duty, Adrahil disappeared to find a chair where he could sit with a glass of wine and admire his wife from afar.

"Your cousin misrepresents me," Lord Daeron told her with a self-effacing expression. "I am not very enthusiastic about poetry in general, but I do know what I like." His smile made her wonder if he was still talking about poetry. "Here, let's step closer to the dance and see if we can't jump in."

She allowed him to lead her through the onlookers until they were at the edge of the floor. The lively current of the dance swept Prince Thengel right in front of her. In his arms he held a tall, elegant woman. Morwen only saw her profile. Her eyes met his for a brief but laden moment, and then he was gone, lost in the sea of bodies.

Blue eyes, she thought. Why had she never noticed how clear they were before? Morwen must have gripped Daeron's hand quite hard for he winced.

"Are you well, Lady Morwen?"

She took a deep breath. "Oh, yes. I just saw someone that I knew in Lossarnach."

"Ah," said Daeron slowly, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of this so-called person, "Which part of that fief do you call home?"

"I live in Imloth Melui," she said dully.

His eyes brightened. "What a charming place. Fruit country, isn't it?"

She looked at Lord Daeron with real interest for the first time. "Do you know the valley?"

"Not personally, but Imloth Melui has a reputation for the most wholesome fruit and herbs available, not to mention it's roses. I have friends who swear by the stalls selling fruit from Bar-en-Ferin."

Morwen felt herself glowing with the unexpected praise. "That is my planation."

"Is it? Happy coincidence we should meet." He touched her elbow. "Oh, I think I see an opening for us. Shall we?"

She gave him her best smile and let him lead her into the dance.

…

The song ended and the dancers rippled toward the outer edges of the floor. The energetic song had made conversation difficult, but as soon as it ended, Lord Daeron led he by the elbow and began to talk.

"Lady Morwen, would you tell me more about yourself. I know you live in Imloth Melui and that you prefer Hyarnustar Gold to Plowman's Pippin. And I know that you are related to Prince Adrahil but you hail from the south. How is that?"

"My father, Randir, was born in Belfalas. Prince Angelimir was his second cousin."

Daeron gazed at her with amazement. "Not the Lord Randir who served Túrin II and Turgon?" He had a far-off look in his eyes. "'Lady of Waters, / Your nets weave a bed for me / Ere the bitter wave.'"

Morwen's face lit up. "The Death poem of Tar-Miriel. That was my favorite of his translations," she cried. "He nearly didn't include it in the anthology because its provenance couldn't be proved."

"I also enjoyed Tar-Amandil's. 'My heart will set now / Beyond western shores. Behold —'"

"'A far green country,'" she finished. "I must have heard the poems a million times while my father worked on them."

"I tore through the Death Poems. Perhaps they're morbid, but you can't find a better example of Númenórean spirit than in that small volume. It's all waves and gulls and sea-longing."

Morwen felt herself warming to Lord Daeron even more. "I'm so pleased to hear that my father's hard work is valued by more than Prince Angelimir."

He gently squeezed her arm. "But of course. Lord Randir was invaluable Steward Turgon by all accounts." He bowed his head. "I am something of a scholar myself – or at least I try to be," he demurred.

"Are you? And what do you study?" She tipped her head to the side, trying to puzzle him out. "You said you weren't enthusiastic about poetry."

"No," he agreed, "Your father's work aside, I prefer architecture."

"Oh?"

"I have long made a study of the older houses in Minas Tirith. We don't have the same skill that our forbearers have, but it is possible to replicate them stylistically on a small scale. Say, lodges." He laughed to himself. "I've been pestering Prince Adrahil to allow me to make a study of the palace in Dol Amroth. It's of an older period, and not entirely Númenórean in design, but it's possible to trace the development over time - even Orthanc would make an interesting study, if I could travel so far. Unfortunately I have to look a little closer to home."

"And what do you plan to do with this knowledge?"

His answer was lost to her as the players finished taking their last gulps from the wine glasses hidden beneath their chairs before striking up another air. It was like one of Lossarnach's country dances, only everyone stood very straight and moved in time – and with fewer collisions. She watched the line go down twice and thought she had it figured out.

"I recognize this. It's similar to one we have in Lossarnach, only the fiddler isn't drunk tonight. Not yet, anyway." She laughed. "We call it bobbing for apples. It's a circle dance and then everyone ducks under each other's arms and out other side."

Daeron smiled. "We have one like that in Lamedon too. Perhaps you would honor me with another round?"

"You're a brave man."

"Nonsense. You're a wonderful dancer," he said. "It's a pleasure."

Morwen shook her head, but smiled. "I think you're very kind but not terribly truthful. I don't get much practice in Imloth Melui and well I know it. I have trodden on your toes at least three times."

He laughed. "But you're light on your feet so I barely noticed."

"Small mercies," she said, allowing herself to be swept away.

…

Morwen must have miscounted the steps at the end of the song. She was sure she was right, but when she completed the turn, her partner had disappeared. Instead of curtseying to Daeron, Prince Thengel stood in his place. Her hand was in his before she could think and he bowed over it. Lord Daeron appeared behind him, looking as nonplussed as she felt.

The prince straightened, blocking Daeron from view again.

"Lady Morwen, I heard you were in town."

"Prince Thengel, I…"

She meant to give him a set down for his rudeness to Lord Daeron, but it never made it past her lips. Prince Thengel's hand felt warm around hers and familiar. It looked like Lord Daeron was out a dance partner, though Morwen thought that was for the best. Too much attention, even from someone as charming as Daeron, would bring unwanted speculation. Although she wasn't managing to avoid that with Prince Thengel. Her hand was still in his.

Thoughts of Lord Daeron skittered away like blossoms in the wind. She needed to say something to the prince, but she couldn't remember what. If he would look away for a moment instead of distracting her with his eyes, then she could think! Instead they seemed to envelop her. He seemed so pleased to see her, which was strange because…because…

It came back to her, then.

"Hello, Prince Thengel," she said. "Happy birthday."