For a moment, Bifalt could not speak. He understood her well enough—and did not understand her at all. Her invitation inspired a sensation of urgency that he had not felt for a long time. He had worked hard to suppress it. When she had first shouted in his mind, while he was escaping from Belleger’s Fist, he had heard only rejection. Why else would she call out to him? But now he wondered at himself. Why had he been so quick to believe that she had turned her back on him?

How had she become a woman who would invite him to her bedchamber?

He did not know how to manage his confusion.

And they were not alone. Crayn was there. Fifth Daughter had not left.

Unsure of himself—unsure of everything—he temporized. Coughing to unlock his throat, he countered, “You have been busy, my lady. You have duties. All I do is sleep. I do not know if it is day or night.”

She bit her lip, a brief flicker of chagrin. “Of course, husband. I understand. This deep in the Repository, day and night are one. If Crayn did not knock on my door to announce my breakfast, I would not be aware that the sun had risen.”

“Then tell me, wife,” said Bifalt to cover his awkwardness. “What are your duties? How do you spend your days?”

She shrugged dismissively. “Talking. Wandering.” Then she took his question more seriously. “I visit our people in their quarters, and also in the infirmary and hospital. There my task is reassurance. They have suffered and bled and lost comrades in your name. They want news of you. I have told them the tale as far as I know it, but they cling to the belief that their victory and Rile’s defeat are your doing. Yours alone.” A single tear slipped down her cheek, yet she kept smiling. “You underestimate your stature in their eyes, husband. They honor General Klamath, Prince Jaspid, and Elgart. Despite his moment of weakness, they respect First Captain Hegels. But they believe in you.”

Bifalt wished devoutly that she would not tell him such things. Fortunately, she seemed able to read his reactions despite his burned visage, his habitual severity. “Most of my time, however,” she continued promptly, “is spent with the librarian and her people. She and Magister Oblique—oh, and Magister Bleak—are now the chief stewards of the Repository. They have many decisions to make.

“They asked me—”

He tightened his grip on her hand. “A moment, my lady. I have been asleep. There is too much that I do not know. Amandis told me that Magister Marrow was slain. Third Father confirmed it. How was it done? Who killed him?”

He did not remember Sirjane Marrow kindly.