"I'm pleased that I warrant telling your sister about at all," Goneril answered. She tensed against the cold, pursing her lips and bowing her head down as she walked. "I understand that. I don't want to burst into your life like some kind of wild animal. I want to make sure everything is done right. And I have things to sort out at home, too. I'm mostly afraid that if I leave this...well, this world, it will be much harder to get back. And I don't know when that will be. My father...I think he's more of a romantic than I am, is the trouble."

"Unfortunately romanticism does not much suit anyone's purposes." He put his arm back around her. "We need to be a little practical."

The guard, who had already been warned that this might happen, nodded and beckoned them forward into the lower floor, with its four small, empty cells lined two to a wall. The interior was dim, damp, dreary, but all told not much worse than any area below deck on Judith's ship. Faolin, however, visibly balked at the doorway, his head twisting violently to the side. He put his arm over his mouth, though the place smelled of nothing nastier than musky hay and stale water.

Goneril gulped, and eyed the cells with undisguised curiosity. "It really is a prison," she murmured, before looking to Faolin. "Are you all right?" she asked him. "What's wrong? Is it the..." She gestured at the cells. "Do you want to go back?"

"No, it's just . . . iron." He brought down his arm and scowled. "Gods but this is wretched. This had better not be your countess's idea of a joke."

She kissed his cheek. "I don't think she meant it as a joke," she assured him. "Let's go; just upstairs, yes? And it will be better?"

The guard led them up the stairs. Faolin hung back again, scowling, as the guard, with his thick gloves, drew back a bolt as thick as a man's wrist, then pushed the iron door inward. Inside was a definite improvement: a single large, round room with a single large, round window--closed and bolted now for winter, with a hatch of flat black bars before a wide sill that would prevent anyone inside the room from reaching through to open the outer shutters. Other than the bars and the iron door, it looked as well-appointed as any lesser room of the castle proper, with a padded bench and a plain chair, a small but sturdy-looking bed, a discreet screen to conceal the privy, and even a small desk for writing, although this was currently open and stripped of equipment. The fire was laid out but unlit. Whoever lived here last had left a piece of half-finished embroidery on the bench.

Faolin lowered his hand from his face again and let out a laugh. "I'm not sure if this is to the countess's credit or not," he told Goneril, "but she keeps a far more pleasant prison than her queen ever did."

Goneril grinned, and let out a sigh of relief, reaching for both of his hands. "If I didn't know it was a prison, I wouldn't realize that's what it is," she said. "Is this better?" she asked him. "The iron isn't too bad up here?"

He shook his head and wrinkled his nose, but replied, "It's not so bad I can't ignore it." Then he turned to the guard and delivered a polite, but explicit, warning as to what would happen if the door should accidentally slip shut. The guard grunted, turned, and left them, stairs creaking all the way down.

"If you want to go, we can," Goneril offered. "I'm sure there are plenty of other places where we can talk. I didn't know it would be uncomfortable for you."

He shook his head again, more amused this time around. "It's private. Really, it's not so bad. Or it won't be once we get a fire going." The fire also had a metal screen that could be bolted shut. Faolin fiddled with it until the peat caught.