The morning fire had been laid, and the girl she had brought from Arta was setting out the day's linen, talking as she worked. She always talked.
"The carpenter was with him again before the second bell, my lady. Third time this week. They say the Despot wants a board built, tall as a man, of planed oak, and painted black all over." She shook out a sleeve. "And he's asked the steward for chalk. Cook says the lamp in the study burns past midnight now. Every night."
"Then the Despot is busy," Theodora said. "See that they do not gossip about it in the kitchens."
"No, my lady." The girl said it the way servants agree to impossible things, and went out with the washing water.
Theodora stood a while by the fire. A busy despot was no bad thing. Her father had been such a man in his good years, always with some master builder at his elbow and a scheme in his hands. Men like that kept their lands. No, the busyness did not trouble her. It was the suddenness. Her father had been born restless. Constantine had woken restless, out of a sick-bed, in the space of days. Before the fever, supper talk had been hunting. The boar in the hills above the town, his falcons, whose hounds were worth anything this season. She had learned to ask about the falcons when the silence stretched. Now there were carpenters at dawn and lamps at midnight and chalk, and he had not once spoken of the hunt.
She crossed to the desk. The letter lay open where she had left it, written in the elegant hand of her brother, Carlo II Tocco. The message was both cordial and subtly insistent.
"Creusa," it began. He always used her birth name when he wrote to her alone. "I trust this letter finds you in good health. I have often wondered how you fare in the court of the Despot. Is Constantine treating you with the respect you deserve? I hope you have begun to find your place among the Byzantine nobles."
Then came the part that had kept her pacing.
"But let me speak plainly, sister. Your position, and our family's standing with it, will not be secure until there are children. Have you spoken with Constantine? The sooner you give him an heir, the stronger your place becomes, in the Morea and in our house."
She could hear his voice in it. The duty was not news to her. But raising it with Constantine now, with him so changed these past days, was another matter.
The letter continued.
"I must also share some troubling rumors," he wrote. "There are whispers that Memnone and his supporters have grown restless. I have no proof yet, but they may be courting the Ottomans against our house. I do not mean to alarm you, Creusa, but keep your ears open. Should you hear anything, or should Constantine speak of Epirus, I would value your counsel."
Theodora read the final passage twice. Carlo asked for nothing outright. He never did. He planted, and expected her to tend.
The heavy oak door creaked open, and Constantine entered. His eyes found her by the window.
"Theodora," he greeted. "You seem preoccupied. Has something happened?"
For a heartbeat she considered showing him the letter. An instinct held her back. How could she lay Carlo's urgings and Epirus rumors on him now, when he already bore the weight of the Morea on his shoulders? And was this even the hour for it, with him so newly himself again? He had enough concerns without her adding to them.
"It is a letter from my brother," she said, folding the parchment and tucking it away. "He wishes to know how I am settling here. That is all."
Constantine nodded, though the furrow in his brow deepened. "Does he need anything? Your family is important to you, and therefore to me."
She hesitated. "He only expresses the usual concerns. Nothing you need trouble yourself with. Not now."
"Still," he said. "If there is something you need, you should tell me. I would not have you worry alone."
"Thank you," she said, and managed a smile. "It is a small thing. You have greater matters waiting than my brother's letter."
Constantine studied her a moment longer. Then he nodded. "Very well. I will be back for supper. If you need anything, call for the servants."
He kissed her forehead, brief, and left, his footsteps fading down the corridor. Theodora waited until they were gone. Then she drew the letter out again.
At her desk she smoothed the letter flat. The last lines stayed with her. Her brother was not asking outright for Constantine's involvement; he was planting the seed and expecting her to tend it. Carlo knew what Constantine held: influence, and an army, and if he chose to spend them in Epirus, it could tip the balance there. Yet bringing such matters to her husband could draw him into a quarrel he was not ready for. And it would show her hand: a Tocco first, a Despotess second.
How much to tell him? She pulled a fresh sheet closer and began.
"My dearest brother," she wrote. "Your letter brought me great joy. You ask how I fare. Well enough, and better than well on some days. The court here is smaller than ours at Arta and quieter, and the Greek they speak is not quite the Greek I learned, but I am no longer the stranger at the table. The steward defers to me on the household accounts now. Two of the ladies have begun copying the way I dress my hair, which I am told is how a court says it has accepted you. The Morea is a land of contrasts, and I discover something new daily."
She paused, the tip of the quill tapping. Should she mention what had come over Constantine? She set the quill down on the page and wrote, He is like a different man. She looked at the words for a long moment. Then she drew a line through them and wrote instead:
"Constantine has been most attentive, though he has faced his own trials recently. There was a time when he seemed quite distant, lost even, but in the past few days, I have noticed a change in him. He carries a renewed sense of purpose, as if something has awakened within him."
She read it back. It said enough, and not too much. What had changed him she could not say. The pressure of the Ottomans? Some resolve found in prayer? Or something else entirely?
Shaking her head, she continued.
"As for your concerns about an heir, know that the matter is not lost on me. I understand well the importance of securing our family's future. Rest assured, I will broach the subject with my husband when the time is right. However, such matters require delicacy. I must navigate these waters carefully, and I ask for your patience in this."
Carlo's talk of Memnone she answered last.
"As for the unrest in Epirus, I shall keep my ears open. The Morea has its share of troubles, and Constantine's attention is spread thin. Nonetheless, I will try to discern what I can. Be vigilant, dear brother, and remember that the walls have ears, even here in Morea. We must tread carefully."
Satisfied with her words, she signed it Theodora, the name her brother never used, and set it aside to dry.
Rising from her chair, she moved to the window and gazed out at the landscape of the Morea. The sun had climbed higher, casting long shadows over the hills and valleys below. This was her home now, and it still felt foreign in more ways than she could name. The path ahead was unclear.
With a sigh, Theodora folded the letter and sealed it with wax, pressing her family's crest into the soft material. She would send it off later. Then the waiting would begin: for Carlo's answer, for the right moment with Constantine, for the forces at play in Epirus and the Morea to show their intentions.
But for now, there were duties to attend to. She turned from the window and straightened her gown. She was Theodora, Despotess of the Morea, and for better or worse, her path was now entwined with Constantine's.
As she stepped into the corridor, she said a quiet prayer for strength in the days ahead.