Fine wool

The dawn wind had shifted from the east, carrying the heavy, sulphurous bite of river fog.

Selene reached the outer gate of the High Keep just as the bells struck five. Her knuckles were raw inside her thin woollen mittens, and the bitter scent of the oil on her throat seemed heavier in the damp air.

The guards at the gatehouse were not the usual half-asleep sentries from the village border.

Four towering warriors stood beneath the arched passage, their cloaks lined with dark fox fur and their chestplates stamped with a running stag, the mark of the Western pack. They paid no attention to the wooden tokens the kitchen staff held up. One stood in the middle of the walkway, testing the air with slow, deliberate breaths as the human workers filed past.

Selene lowered her chin and pulled her scarf tighter over her jaw.

As she stepped beneath the arch, the guard's gaze settled on her. His eyes were the cold grey of frozen river water. His nostrils twitched.

For two agonising heartbeats, Selene held her breath.

Then the sharp stench of scorched pine and bitter hemlock rose from her collar, cutting through the damp morning air.

The warrior grimaced and turned his head aside.

"Gods above. Do you bathe in lye or sheep dip, girl? Move along."

Selene kept her pace steady. "Pardon, sir."

She did not hurry across the inner courtyard, but the skin between her shoulder blades prickled until she reached the iron postern door leading to the domestic quarters.

The basement scullery was in chaos.

Usually, at this hour, Mrs Hallowell sat alone at her desk with the ledger, checking the daily tallow rations. Today, three unfamiliar women stood beside the linen presses. They wore identical grey woollen dresses of fine weave, spotless white aprons and crisp, starched caps.

"Not that basin," one snapped as Selene entered.

The woman had a thin, sharp nose and a brass key ring hanging from her belt.

"Lady Rebecca's undergarments are not to be washed in the same tubs as kitchen rags. Has no one instructed these people?"

Mrs Hallowell stood near the hearth, her back straighter than usual and her lips pressed into a thin line.

"The eastern wing laundry has always been handled separately, Mistress Clara. We have served this Keep for thirty years without incident."

"You served a bachelor Alpha," Clara replied coldly, flicking a speck of lint from her sleeve. "A packhouse without a Luna is run like a garrison. That ends now. Lady Rebecca requires four fresh pitchers of rosewater before the sun clears the ridge. Her chambers are to be swept with dry heather, not wet rags."

Her gaze moved across the room and settled on Selene.

"You. Take the copper kettle from the stove to the second-floor salon. Her attendants need boiling water for the morning press. Move quickly. It should have been there ten minutes ago."

Selene glanced at Mrs Hallowell.

The older woman gave an almost imperceptible nod. Comply. Endure. Keep out of trouble.

"Yes, ma'am."

The copper kettle was large enough to hold two gallons, its base blackened by peat smoke. Selene wrapped a thick cloth around the handle and lifted it from the stove. With her sleeves rolled back from her wrists, she carried the steaming vessel up the narrow stone staircase that bypassed the main hall.

The second floor was quiet, its thick runner carpets swallowing the sound of her footsteps.

As Selene reached the corridor outside the guest salon, the door swung open.

Lady Rebecca stepped out.

Selene stopped at once, moving back against the stone wall with her eyes lowered.

Up close, the Western Alpha's daughter looked out of place in the rough mountain territory of Black Moon. Her travelling dress was deep plum velvet, edged with silver embroidery that caught the torchlight. Her blonde hair was braided with thin silver ribbons, and her skin had the smooth, untouched appearance of someone who had never carried a pail of water in her life.

A young woman followed half a pace behind her, carrying a tray of porcelain cups.

"Tell the stable master my mare is to be walked only in the inner ring," Rebecca was saying. "The mountain mud ruins her hocks. If Orion cannot provide proper gravel, I will have my father send—"

She stopped. Her brow lifted as she noticed Selene and the steaming kettle.

"What is that smell?"

Rebecca pulled a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it to her nose.

"Is that burnt resin? Clara! Who allowed this girl up the eastern stairs?"

The maid carrying the tray hurried forward.

"She was bringing the water for the press, my lady."

"Get it out of the corridor," Rebecca said, waving a hand. "It smells like an apothecary's cellar. If that stench gets into my furs, I'll have the whole lot of them thrown into the valley."

The maid stepped forward hurriedly.

"Give it here."

"Careful," Selene murmured. "The handle is hot."

But the maid had already grabbed the cloth. She pulled before Selene had released the weight.

The kettle lurched.

Boiling water surged over its rim.

The maid screamed and dropped her end. The water spilled across Selene's exposed left forearm and wrist.

The copper kettle struck the stone floor with a deafening crash. Water spread across the expensive woollen runner.

"Incompetent fools!" Rebecca snapped.

The maid who had grabbed the kettle dropped to her knees, crying. Only a few splashes had touched her skirt.

Selene stood against the wall, frozen.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She looked down at her arm.

Boiling water had poured directly over her skin. Steam curled from her wet sleeve and dripped from her wrist.

Her flesh should have blistered. Her skin should have reddened, the pain sharp enough to bring tears to her eyes.

Instead, she felt only the wetness.

And the heat.

It was like warm bathwater on a cold evening.

There was no blister. No redness. No peeling skin.

Her arm remained smooth, pale and entirely unmarked.

Selene stared at it, unable to understand what she was seeing.

Then hurried footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor.

"What is going on here?"

The voice cut through the corridor.

Selene looked up.

Orion stood at the far end of the gallery, his dark hair still damp from washing. His jaw was set, and he wore a black leather commander's coat with his broadswords strapped to his hip.

His hazel eyes took in the overturned kettle, the ruined carpet and Rebecca's furious expression.

Then his gaze shifted.

It settled on Selene's wet sleeve, the steam still rising from it, and the unburned skin of her wrist.

His eyes narrowed.