The day the scribe was murdered was the same day Alyn first saw her patron, although she had been in his service for nearly six months. The other pages in the Fourth Star Court had told her that was nothing unusual for Lord Miervaldis. The older pages could list on the fingers of one hand how many times they had seen her lord, and some of the kitchen staff didn't even recognise his name. Miraina, Alyn's best friend and the only other girl in her year, attended her assigned patron almost as rarely. But, Alyn had thought, at least he had turned up at the induction ceremony. The Fourth Star Court chamberlain had had to stand in for her.

So when the under-groom's boy arrived in the door of the classroom to announce that Lord Miervaldis wanted his page in the first hall, as soon as possible, it came as a complete surprise. Lord Fitzhugh had been droning on about variations of court law brought in four hundred years ago, and Alyn had long since stopped listening, slumped over her desk fiddling with her short, fluffy brown hair and dreaming about nothing more interesting than the end of the lesson. The knock at the door barely moved her from her reverie, but she blinked awake when she heard her name.

"Sorry, sir, but I was sent to ask for Alyn Vanyasdotter to attend on her lord. He's in the first hall."

Alyn didn't quite register what that meant at first. The teacher waved a laconic hand in her general direction.

"Go on, Alyn. You can copy Miraina's notes later."

Miraina gave Alyn a wink, and reached to take her friend's papers and quills as Alyn pushed clumsily out of the chair. She stood aside, took a breath, bowed to the teacher and ran from the room.

It was a long way from the classroom to the first hall. The Fourth Star Court was one of the smaller courts, but its ancient buildings still stretched over more than a square mile of ground, arranged in gracious, studied disarray around small gardens, cultivated orchards and sculpted stone courtyards. The pages were taught wherever was available, which today had meant one of the unused court rooms at the far end of the West Pavilion, almost as far as she could be from the Court's great first hall.

The under-groom's boy, Tom, followed behind her as she ran, her steps echoing in the court's corridors. Reaching the central cross corridor, she almost knocked over the head housekeeper and grimaced at Dame Clarin's angry shouts even as she raced away. She hoped she didn't end up cleaning the old tack rooms again. That had been bad enough the first time.

Putting potential punishments aside, she sped through the older rooms off the central corridor, swinging from the door frames to help her make the turns. There were three steps down to the enclosed kitchen garden, its sweet herby smell rising around her, then a rarely used door on the other side. She ducked into the pantry corridor and hurried through the busy kitchen, dodging a swipe from an under-cook with the ease of practice.

Racing down one of the subsidiary corridors, reaching the corner, grabbing the decorative gargoyle to steady and pivot herself, she flew around the bend, and almost hit a man standing right in front of her. Her feet went out from under her, and she only stopped herself from falling by clutching the helpful gargoyle tightly. The man turned round as she regained her balance; she bowed quickly, hoping he could not see her furious, embarrassed blush.

"I'm terribly sorry, my Lord..." she managed, staring at the floor.

"Ah, Alyn."

It was a light voice, not quite melodic, not a familiar one. She looked up at a tall, slim man, with tousled greying brown hair and pale brown eyes in a lean, weathered face. His hair was caught back in a loose ponytail tied with a scrap of velvet, although some curls had escaped to bob untidily around his ears. His clothes had been in fashion about fifteen years ago; a velvet waistcoat that hung rather loosely, as though he had lost weight, and short trousers caught with ties at the knees. He was a complete stranger; she gaped at him. He smiled.

"You have the misfortune of being my page this year, I'm afraid," said Lord Iarlaith Miervaldis.