"She's all fingers and ice," Lucille said, lifting the child by the coat collar. "Don't drop her," Roman snapped, reaching a hand. His voice held a command he used on merchants and carpenters, not on his wife. "Bring her here," Lucille said, ignoring him. She pressed the child's hands into a steaming bowl of broth a servant held. "Hold it. Sip." The girl did not look up. She drank with shaky, fast little gulps, broth dripping from her chin onto the snow. A white bead on a red cord caught the weak light and glinted like moonlight on something sharp. "Where did you find her?" Roman asked. He kept his tone flat. He watched every small movement as if a single twitch would explain the whole thing. "Trail beside the old carriage road," the hunter said. His breath made a brief cloud. "Near the birches. Seen nobody. Just a litter of scraps, a boot, a bootlace, and her. Coat gone, face blue. I thought—" "You did right," Lucille said. She tucked the wet hair back from the girl's forehead. "Bring her inside. Now." Armando stepped forward, boots scuffing. "If she's nameless, we name her. If she carries coin, we put it in the ledgers. If she's ill, she stays in the infirmary. No guessing." He laid out questions like commands. "She has a bead," Lucille said. "She has two hands that will curve around a spoon when they're warm. She has a small