The monk stopped himself. “Forgive me, King. You may not be aware that Sirjane Marrow is dead. The librarian is now Magister Beatrix Threnody. You will not call her arrogant.”

Then he resumed. “The Queen was called away. She and the librarian preside over a remembrance of the dead and a celebration of the living. It will be a lengthy ceremony. There are too many names, the dead and the living, and none should be forgotten.

“I was asked to attend. But I am near the end of my days, and my strength fades. I prefer to sit with you for a time.”

Bifalt retained parts of Third Father’s explanation. Other details slipped into the gulf where his recent memories should have been. But Estie was well. That was the important thing.

He went back to sleep.

When he awoke again, he had no idea how much time had passed. He lay in an unfamiliar bed. The lamplit chamber was strange to him. But he recalled a bit more of who he was. Scraps of events drifted at the edges of coherence. The same vagueness afflicted his vision.

Estie’s voice drew him toward her. It seemed to give him meaning.

“Welcome, my lord King.” She had lost none of her sweetness. “Third Father sent word that you have begun to rouse. I came as soon as I could.”

He blinked again and again. The blurring of his sight resembled the smear of sorcery that the priests had used against him. He hated it.

Through the haze, she looked inexpressibly weary. But as soon as he managed to croak “My lady,” she became radiant. Lights sparkled in her soft eyes. Her smile lifted everything around her.

“I feared for you, my lord.” He could not interpret her tone. It sounded like weeping or teasing. “I should have known better. You are too great to be slain by armies or gods.”

She was as bad as Third Father. Half of what she said did not make sense. But she was here. That was what mattered. Eventually, perhaps, Bifalt might remember why he was here.

At his best, he could not have matched her smile. He needed all of his strength to say, “You called me Beloved.”

She nodded. “I did. And I said more. I told you that I love you. I should have said so long ago. I will not miss another chance. I love you, Bifalt.”

He was still trying to pick up the fragments of things that he should have known. Uncomfortably, he confessed, “When I heard your voice the first time. We had escaped the Fist. I thought—”

A sudden memory plucked that thought away. Instead, he stared at her, desperate to see her clearly.

“You hear me. How can you hear me?”

The angles of her smile shifted. It became arch. With one hand, she directed his attention to the other side of his bed.