“Of course you will,” Ramp said. “I’ve tried to talk my clients down, but they can’t wait long—three days at the most. You’ll find notice of our suit here.” She tapped the envelope. “But there is another option.”

Ramp produced a second envelope, thicker and red and sealed in wax, from the inside pocket of her jacket. “Less bloodshed and mystic battle, more compromise. This”—laying the envelope beside its bone-white sister—“is a binding version of the agreement we discussed yesterday. Sign this, and your church affirms its separation from Seril Undying. The language here formalizes an open market relationship between the two deities. Your gods’ personal affairs remain their own business, far be it from me to assert otherwise, but this will stop any off-book shenanigans, unmediated by contract. If Seril needs help, she’s free to offer market-rate payment, or seek outside investment. If Kos wants to work with her, he’ll have a range of options, including formal merger. It’s a good deal. I fought hard to convince my clients to offer it. Sign this, and save us both a lot of trouble.” She lifted her hand from the envelope. “But I can’t hold off my filing while you consider. If you want to take the deal, I’ll need blood on paper by end of day.”

Hard sharp silence followed. The red envelope and the white glowed on the table. Classic hustle, Tara thought, scornful and admiring at once: hard road and easy and little time to choose. So classic she doubted the red envelope held any poison beyond the deal. Deception was beside the point. Formalized separation left Kos protected, and Seril exposed.

Everything Bede wanted was in the red envelope: an out that would save his God and church from Seril, regardless of that God’s own will. The Cardinal Evangelist had hauled Abelard before a tribunal for making the same choice the wrong way. Tara might not be able to change his mind, but she needed time to try.

Bede didn’t give it to her.

His robes brushed the ground as he stood. Knuckles planted on the table, he leaned forward. “We need no time to discuss.” Hells. None of her options looked good: preempt Bede in front of the Cardinals? Suicidal. Slip inside his mind, force different words out of his mouth? Ramp would notice, and Daphne—they knew better than anyone what tools she had at her disposal. Besides, such an approach was unambiguously evil. Give the man a brief heart attack?

Bede licked his lips. Sweat beaded on his brow.

Only in this seeming weakness do we live with God.

Tara prepared the heart attack.

Before she could act, Bede spoke. “Our Lord and His Lady have endured a thousand years. For us to sign that document would be to fail in our faith.”

Tara kept her jaw from dropping.