Sabine crossed to the basin and splashed cold water on her face. “Is it public?”
“Not gallery public. Temple public. Serast. Maelor. Halvine. A crown clerk if they want legal cover. Sometimes physicians. Sometimes wardens.” Lysa laid the gown across the bed. “Enough eyes to make it official. Not enough to make it accountable.”
Sabine dried her face.
Isolde’s letter was still sewn into the inner hem of her ceremonial underlayer. She had slept with it hidden beneath folded linen beside the bed, unwilling to leave it in the travel case, unwilling to put it anywhere the palace could reach without first going through cloth meant for her skin.
She picked up the underlayer.
Lysa saw.
“Do you want me to remove it?”
“No.”
“If Maelor orders a full examination, they may find it.”
“Then he will have to explain why a bloodwright is stripping a bride during a compatibility trial.”
Lysa’s mouth tightened. “Do not give him ideas.”
Sabine stepped into the garment. The linen slid cool over her body. The hidden letter settled against her side, just above the ribs, light as paper, heavy as a dead woman’s hand.
Then Lysa helped her into the gown.
It was beautiful in the way execution rooms could be beautiful when built by men with money. High-necked. Long-sleeved. Cut close through the bodice, falling in a controlled line to the floor. Silver fastenings at the cuffs. No softness. No house color. No vanity.
A gown designed to make blood look ceremonial.
Lysa pinned Sabine’s hair back hard enough to expose the mark climbing her forearm where the sleeve opened.
“Keep your breathing steady,” Lysa said.
“That was the garden advice.”
“It applies to every trial once they stop pretending the body is separate from the soul.”
Sabine met her eyes in the mirror.
“What happens if the blood does not match?”
“It always matches when the temple wants it to.”
“And if they want it not to?”
“Then the bride becomes unstable, unsuitable, corrupted, excessive, impure, or whatever word best serves the record.”
Sabine looked down at her hand.
The mark warmed beneath her attention.
Not fear.
Recognition.
She thought of Lucien in the Blackwater, his arm locked around her waist, hauling her back from the dark. Lucien in the archive stair, mouth hot against hers and control breaking by degrees. Lucien standing before the court while Serast forced Isolde’s name into open air.
She thought of Isolde’s letter.
