Chapter 6: The Marshal's House

The grain store burned to the ground, and a stable boy with a lamp wept in front of the Marshal's men.

No one died, exactly as I had said.

Hadrian read the rider's report standing in my doorway with his shirt half buttoned.

Then he turned and looked at me for a long time.

"All right," he said.

"I believe you."

"That's it?"

"I do not have an alternative explanation," he said.

"And I am fairly sure I would rather have you in my house than in the Prince's."

By noon my trunks were packed.

My father stood in the front hall in his silk robe and watched Betsy carry out a hatbox.

"Rosie, darling, must you stay with the Marshal?"

"It's for my protection, Father."

"But the neighbors will talk."

"The Marshal has agreed to pay a hundred crowns a month for my board," I said.

"Sign here," I said, and held out the pen.

My father signed without reading it.

I gave him a kiss on the cheek, and I took the hundred crowns for myself.

The Marshal's town house was the plainest house I had ever seen a duke live in.

It had gray stone, a long hall with one rug, and a kitchen that smelled of bread.

A housekeeper with floury arms looked me over and said nothing, which I decided was the nicest welcome I could ask for.

I had been given a room at the end of the hall, two doors from his.

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