Summer raised the longbow before her face and laid fingertips to the string. Finding a bow with the right draw was imperative to the ability to aim, and she had been through almost all of the bows in the training yard. Slowly, patiently, she drew the bowstring back to her ear, releasing it with a sharp twang.

“Perfect,” she murmured. Turning to the side, she picked up an arrow and fit it to the string. At least she was being allowed to continue with her archery, despite coming to London. For a little while there, she had been afraid her father was going to insist on her being a perfect court lady, in some mad attempt to catch the King’s eye.

The arrow smacked into the bullseye, and she picked up another arrow. That was really more her sister’s role, or had been, anyway. Now Winter was married and far away on the fringes of Wales, holding off the Glendower and his crazy rebels. And Summer was here, bored silly at a court with no queen and therefore no need for ladies in waiting.

She could feel someone’s eyes on her back, and elected to ignore them, firing off three more arrows in rapid succession.