“And if they try anyway?”
“Demand First Consent.”
Sabine nodded.
Lucien’s grip tightened.
“I am going for Serast’s book.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“That is stupid.”
“It is extremely stupid.”
“Good. At least you know.”
His mouth almost curved.
Then the expression vanished.
“If I do not reach you before dawn…”
“You will.”
“If I do not,” he said, harder now, “you speak the old language. You refuse the posture. You make the chamber declare itself.”
Sabine touched his face once.
“Find the words.”
He kissed her.
Hard. Brief. Chosen.
Then he vanished behind the panel.
Sabine returned to her chamber alone.
Lysa was waiting beside the desk.
Her eyes went straight to Sabine’s face, then her gown, then the place near her collarbone where the new marks were hidden beneath fabric.
“You found it,” she said.
“The foundation chapel.”
“And?”
“The original vow was mutual. Two stones. Facing each other. Either party could withdraw before the binding phrase. The rite could not seal where consent was absent.”
Lysa stared at her.
For once, no dry reply came.
Sabine crossed to the desk and removed the folded page of notes she had made from memory. Her hand still ached from the cut. Her palm left the faintest blood shadow on the paper.
