"Miss, wake—Master returns today." "Ping, I'm awake." Clementine's voice came out thinner than she wanted. The morning light had already folded into the lattice windows, painting the bed curtains a soft pink. The curtains were why she kept thinking of a canopy and not of the absurd, impossible life in her head. "You're that pale," Ping said, tugging a blanket aside. "Stand up. You've gotten lazy since winter court." "I did not," Clementine said. She sat up, rubbing her eyes and testing the weight of her fingers. Fingers of a girl who had learned to type in a different century and then, for fun, become a minor heroine in a prefect's household. "I trained at home." Katherine Duncan's footsteps came down the corridor like a measured drum. "Clem," she said, sliding into the room, "Master will be back by noon. Make sure you look like a Hayes daughter. No tripping at the gate." "Tripping is exclusive to Broderick," Clementine said, smiling before she could stop herself. Broderick pushed the door open and shoved his head in. "You say that every morning and yet I'm the one who broke three plates last month. Where's my sympathy?" He loped in with the ease of a son who had eaten his way through every provincial fair. "Also, there's a roast at the east kitchen. You should get up." "I'll die for that roast," Clementine said instantly. The memory of a different roast