Page 57
“I accept.”
The silver chain warms.
Magic passes across my wrist and sinks beneath the skin without leaving a mark. The hanging scales level for a single breath. Then the house seal drags its side downward again.
The cleric removes the chain.
“By royal edict, witnessed contract, and the Arbiter’s measure, the union is lawful. Fiona Holt is Lady Morwen’thir.”
Sarveth bows to Rhysandir first, then to me.
Joran follows. His bow to me is shallower, but it is real.
Rhysandir releases my wrist.
No kiss follows. No vows promise devotion. The contract is rolled, sealed, and placed inside a warded case.
The marriage is complete.
Sarveth escorts me from the court to the chambers assigned to the lady of the house. They occupy the eastern tower, above the rooms where I spent the night.
The sitting room alone is larger than the entire clinic. Gilded furniture stands upon pale carpets. A dressing room contains rows of new gowns in colors selected without my opinion. The bedchamber overlooks Lowtown, though snow hides it today.
“It is beautiful,” Briar says from the doorway.
“It is quiet.”
“That is considered desirable.”
“By people who have never listened for a sick child through a wall.”
She lowers her gaze.
I walk through each room. Everything has been arranged for a Lady Morwen’thir imagined by Sarveth. Silver combs. Scented oils. Embroidered slippers too delicate for useful walking.
A cold draft touches my face near the sitting-room wall.
I follow it to a narrow door concealed behind a curtain.
It is locked.
“What is beyond this?” I ask.
Briar’s hands clasp tighter. “Nothing used, my lady.”
“Nothing rarely requires a lock.”
“The room is not part of the prepared chambers.”
“Open it.”
“I should ask Matron Sarveth.”
“You may tell her Lady Morwen’thir ordered it.”
The title tastes bitter. It also turns the key.
Briar removes a small ring from her apron and opens the door.
