The wolf beside Althea perked up at her sudden tension, its glowing fur shimmering faintly.

“My Lady?” Melva asked, setting down the tray of tea. “What is it? What do you see?”

Althea’s breath hitched. She rushed to the window and pressed her hand against the frame, her heart pounding. A man stood in the courtyard below. He turned slightly, and the sunlight fell across his profile. That face—sharp, familiar, unforgettable.

“It’s him,” she whispered, her chest ...