Through a Dark Mist by Marsha Canham

wisdom in what he said, and, the fact that it caused the Wolf’s brows to furl together like the gathering clouds of a storm, prompted Servanne to breach her resolve to starve to death. She reached for a thin slice of capon and took the tiniest bite into her mouth. It was delicious, which made her stomach groan for a second morsel, then a third …
    When her trencher was emptied, refilled, then emptied again, she unselfconsciously tore the gravy-soaked plate into bite-sized pieces and removed all evidence of its existence down to the last crumbs. Sparrow’s drinking cup had also ended up between them and she found the wine to be surprisingly fresh and full-bodied, of a far better quality than the vinegary possets that often graced the tables of wealthy nobles.
    Mutter and Stutter, bowing to howled demands and flung food, took their leave of the table and, kicking aside the dogs who fought happily amid the crunch and snap of discarded bones, placed their stools in the bright glow of the fires and set their fingers to plucking out tunes on the lute and viol.
    The food, the wine, the music cast a dreamy sense of unreality over everything. The fire sent gauntlets of orange and yellow flame leaping toward the blackness above. The enclosing stone walls formed a cavern of light and shadow that was almost cozy in its isolation.
    Servanne could feel her eyelids growing heavier and heavier, the weight of her wimple beginning to pull her chin lower and lower onto her chest.
    “So, my lady.” The Wolf’s sonorous tone brought her head up with a start. “You have supped on the king’s deer and prolonged your stay on earth awhile longer. You have also shown a remarkable restraint in the matter of the ransom I shall demand from your groom. Are you not curious to know the value of your life—or rather, what value your groom will place on your continued good health?”
    Servanne sighed wearily, in no mood to take his bait.
    “I am certain, whatever you have demanded, he will pay.”
    “A true adherent to the codes of chivalry, is he? Gold spurs flashing, swords thrusting, damosels rescued from the clutches of evil at any cost? He sounds almost too good to be true.”
    Servanne glared in silence.
    “So, you have no doubt he will pay whatever I demand?” “Have you?”
    “Madam, I doubt everything and everyone—even my own good sense on occasion. It is a credo that has kept me alive while others have perished and turned to dust.”
    “A pity you were not less insightful,” she murmured tartly, putting a deal of frost in her gaze before turning her attention back to the minstrels. “I have no doubt my stay here will be a short one.”
    “One way or another,” he agreed smoothly. “Still, ten thousand marks is a goodly sum of coin.”
    Servanne stiffened, then whirled to face him. “Ten thousand marks! Are you mad?”
    “Are you afraid he will not part with that much silver?”
    She released her breath on a gasp of exasperation. “If you are asking if Lord Lucien has the wealth to pay such an … an outrageous sum, the answer is yes. Ten times over.”
    A dark brow arched inquisitively. “Then I should have demanded more?”
    “No! I mean … no.” She stopped and chewed savagely on her lip. “Ten thousand is …”
    “A fair test of his devotion?”
    “Too much to expect a man to pay for—”
    “A bride whose angelic disposition nearly overwhelms her vast inheritances? Tell me honestly—if you can do such a thing without compromising the staunch beliefs of your gender—have you not wondered what his motives were in seeking this union?”
    “His motives!” Frustrated, Servanne clasped her hands into tight little fists and fought to keep her temper in check. “The purpose behind your aggravating persistence eludes me, sirrah. What is it exactly that you wish to know? Lord Lucien is a fine, noble gentleman—”
    “Who loves you to the point of distraction and cannot bear to think of a prolonged