“Is there anything else I can do in the meantime?”

She thought for a moment and stared down at her abused dress. “My uniform. Whichever road I walk from here, I’d sooner do it as myself.”

Malachi nodded. She’d not be permitted to keep it, not if she walked the gallows road. Nonetheless, it was cheering to see more of the woman he remembered shining through.

Which would make the hurt all the deeper if he failed to save her.

In the end, it took over two hours for Marek to get the Kiradin carriage underway for the Council palace – the time it took for Lady Ebigail to pronounce her daughter a fit sight for council. Even then, no amount of masking powder could entirely hide the bruises. Then had come the winding bridal procession that had blocked the streets between the Silverway River and King’s Mount church. It had been a battered train of carriages – too battered for the bride to hail from a family of true wealth and standing – but Marek had duly brought his journey to a halt until the streets had cleared, as was tradition. Weddings, like interments, were owed respect, for each marked flourish and sacrifice in their own way. Even Lady Ebigail voiced no impatience – though the hawker who’d approached the carriage window soon thereafter received the shortest and sharpest of shrift.

By the time they finally arrived, the palace’s reception rooms were a-bustle with bodies and abuzz with conversation. The noonday session was not yet underway and the lords and ladies of the Grand Council had yet to filter into the chamber. A sea of fine gowns and tailored jackets, it lapped around fluted columns and statues of worthies long vanished into the mists.

Lady Ebigail navigated a graceful path without ever slowing save to greet an acquaintance. Lady Sevaka fared less well. The sea of bodies that parted readily for the mother was less inclined to do so for the daughter. Marek remained confident that would change in time, as Lady Sevaka grew into her legacy. That was the way of things in Tressia. But for the moment, he was careful not to crowd her, lest his proximity spur unseemly haste.

“Ebigail! Ebigail, I must speak with you.”

The upstart Lord Reveque emerged from the crowd. Lacking, as usual, proper respect in both tone and manner.

Lady Ebigail slowed to a halt and regarded him with restraint. “I regret it will have to wait. I have business that will not.”

His face twisted in discomfort. “I . . . I need your assistance.”

“Really?” She raised an eyebrow, her tone warming from annoyance to amusement. “I suppose this is worth hearing.”

“Mother . . .”

“Yes, Sevaka. I haven’t forgotten. Very well, Malachi. Speak your piece.”