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Sarveth waits inside the carriage.
The guard opens the door.
I look toward the clinic one final time. The sign hangs crooked above the entrance. Frost rims the window. Lissa stands behind the glass with my ledger in her hands.
This place contains nearly everything I have built since my parents died.
It no longer belongs to my daily life.
I embrace Nessa, then Bran. I enter the carriage without allowing the guard to touch me.
Lowtown recedes behind dark glass as we climb toward the stronghold.
I leave my home because remaining would condemn it.
8
RHYSANDIR
My signature alters the marriage contract before the ink dries.
Chaos stirs within the black pigment, binding my name to the wards of House Morwen’thir. The letters darken, then settle against the parchment.
Rhysandir Morwen’thir.
The line beneath mine remains blank.
Fiona Holt.
I set the silver pen beside the contract.
An unnamed household clerk waits across the desk with his head lowered. He is a narrow Miou male in the grey robes assigned to administrative servants. Three ledgers rest against his chest.
“Read the supply order,” I say.
He opens the top ledger. “Three months of grain allocated according to Lowtown’s registered households. Three months of dry tiphe from the western stores. Three months of medical supplies, including rirzed, fever treatments, clean linen, and twelve varieties of medicinal roots.”
“Have the wagons departed?”
“The first left the lower gate twenty minutes ago. The others are being loaded.”
“They were ordered released before Fiona Holt arrives.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Were my instructions unclear?”
“No.”
“Then why are wagons still being loaded?”
“The quartermaster questioned whether the medical allocation included supplies reserved for the household infirmary.”
“It does.”
The clerk swallows. “I will inform him.”
“Inform him that another delay will result in his replacement.”
