The gates creaked open like a reluctant mouth. Fog stroked the stone floor with its fingers as a girl not older than twenty walked through, head bent, hands clasped like a dutiful prayer.

Seraphine.

She had on too plain a gown for the cold, the hem torn, dew-clogged boots. Her pale hair unnaturally shone and fell down her back in the manner of moonlight poured into threads. She remained silent until the guards allowed their spears to fall.

"I have come to serve," she told him. Her voice was ...