A Letter from Home
Sabine woke before dawn with the taste of river water still in her throat.
She lay in the dark and cataloged damage. Bruised ribs where Lucien’s arm had locked around her. Raw throat from coughing black water. Fingers that still ached from clutching forbidden evidence while the current tried to wrench it away. The mark on her palm burned warmer than the rest of her body, as if the bond remembered heat when everything else remembered cold.
She also remembered Lucien’s mouth on hers against the balcony stone. The way his hand had tightened in her hair. The rough sound he made when she bit his lip.
The mark pulsed.
Sabine sat up and pressed her palm against the cold sheets until the heat faded enough to think clearly.
Lysa entered carrying a tray and a formal gown in temple colors. Dark gray wool, high collar, silver fastenings that would look like obedience from across a room.
“The Consecration Hall,” Lysa said. “Serast wants you dressed for judgment.”
Sabine rose and let Lysa help her into the gown. The fabric settled against her bruised ribs like accusation.
“What will he ask.”
“Questions he already knows the answers to. The point is not information. The point is making you contradict yourself or reveal what you are hiding.” Lysa fastened the collar with quick fingers. “The temple suspects you kept something from the Blackwater. They cannot prove theft without searching you or the chamber. So they will try to make you unstable, spiritually unsuitable, or dangerously bonded instead.”
Sabine crossed to her travel case and withdrew the hidden strip of music from the false lining. The dried notation was still clear. The message beneath still visible.
Not the first. Not the last.
“I need to hide this somewhere Serast cannot find it even if he orders a full search.”
Lysa considered. “Give it to me. I will take it to the laundry annexes and fold it into linens bound for the dowager wing. No one searches Ilyra’s household without her permission, and she would enjoy refusing Serast on principle.”
Sabine handed over the music carefully.
Lysa tucked it into her apron. “If they ask whether you have it, you can say truthfully that it is not in your possession.”
“That feels like the kind of truth that gets women burned for lying.”
“Only if you get caught.” Lysa met her eyes. “Do not get caught.”
The Consecration Hall was colder than the bride wing and older than the current palace.
Stone walls carved with symbols Sabine did not recognize. A raised dais where Serast sat with Bloodwright Maelor besidehim. Mistress Halvine stood near a writing desk, recording. A crown clerk occupied a side bench, present but silent.
Lucien was not there.
Sabine felt his absence like cold water closing over her head.
Serast gestured to the chair positioned below the dais. “Lady Sabine. Sit.”
She sat.
Maelor watched her with the calm interest of someone observing a specimen rather than a person.
“The Blackwater Trial presented irregularities,” Serast began. His voice was perfectly controlled. “We are here to clarify the record and ensure the sacred integrity of your passage.”
“I passed the trial.”
“You did. After nearly drowning. After the prince entered sacred water to retrieve you. After objects were recovered that did not match the assigned niche.” Serast folded his hands. “Tell me what you felt when you reached into the Blackwater.”
Sabine kept her face calm. “Cold. The current was stronger than I expected.”
