The day Zairine was laid to rest, the air turned sharply cold. Great snowflakes fell, covering the whole city in white.
Seralyn, wrapped in a thick wool coat, carried a bowl of warm rosehip and honey soup into Rynell's parlour. Her smile was soft and unguarded. "Rynell, though my sister is gone, you need not be alone. I shall often come to keep you company."
Rynell had been gazing out the window at the falling snow. At her voice, he turned slowly, his gaze passing over her to rest upon a plate of blossom tarts on the table.
"The hawthorn are in bloom. Taste these freshly made plum blossom tarts."
A flicker of unease crossed Seralyn's eyes. She set down the soup, hesitated, then lifted one cake and took a bite. "They taste just as they did in those days."
Rynell looked steadily at her.
