“Everything can be used against her. But trust must start somewhere.”
I sighed.
“What do you want from me?” I asked.
“Tomorrow? Nothing visible.”
“Convenient.”
“Difficult,” he corrected. “For you, apparently.”
The old version of me would have disliked him for that.
It brought the current version of me less satisfaction than I preferred to realize he was right.
Aldric turned to leave.
“Professor.”
He stopped.
“If they hurt her in that room?”
Aldric’s step faltered. A small failure. Human enough that I trusted it more than composure.
“There will be people in the room to make sure they don’t get a chance.”
He left before I could ask who, but I had ideas.
I stayed in the salle until the lamps along the wall lit themselves one by one.
Upstairs, Astra Verita was alone with a dress the Council wanted to call an honor.
I could not stand beside her.
So I did the only thing I could do without giving Quill another line to write.
I stayed where I could hear the building if it screamed.
37
By nine o’clock, Caspian’s note was in my boot, my mother’s brooch was tucked inside my coat, and I was carrying the dress box into the east preparation room.
The room sat two corridors beyond Cosima’s, behind a pale door with no number and a handle polished smooth.
Three mirrors stood along the far wall, and a low platform waited in the center of the room, surrounded by urns of wilting Lillies.
Two fitting women stood beside it. The same two who had delivered the dress. They wore the same dark gray dresses and the same trained absence of expression.
Caswell stood by the door.
A narrow table held pins, thread, scissors, a basin no larger than a serving bowl, and a sheet of paper with my name at the top.
The paper bothered me most.
The paper had arrived ready.
Caswell didn’t bother to greet me. He only said, “Place the box on the table, Verita.”
