Summer Delangel, nee Rainault, neatly placed another stitch in the embroidered bodice she was making, and carefully did not sigh. Being a widow, even a knight’s widow, was even more dull, stultifying, and boring than being the old maid daughter of a merchant house had been. At least back then there had been the excitement of her affaire d’amour with Duke Humphrey — but he had left, and she had been married off, and then her stupid husband had died in one of the King’s endless battles with France, and basically at this point there was nothing she hated more than her own life.

She didn’t even have a child to remember her late husband by, or to make her brief marriage worthwhile. At that thought, she laid her handwork down in her lap, then aside completely, and forced herself to go outside. Once the dark thoughts began, there was nothing she could do to stop them, but a brisk walk helped to fight the useless tears. She set off for the palace gardens, eyes cast down to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze.