He finally seemed to realize who precisely he was speaking to, collapsing into an awkward bow that knocked him against the table, nearly sending the ink toppling once more. “My apologies, my lady. I did not realize…”

I waved away his panic. “It’s of no matter – well I know what it’s like to lose oneself in one’s work.”

“Of course.” He bobbed another bow. “We have several pieces of your work here, including your portrait of Her Majesty, which–”

On any other day, I’d be willing to discuss artwork for hours, but not today, so I interrupted. “What is your name, sir?”

“Martin, my lady. Fifth librarian.”

He couldn’t have been any older than I was, only just having completed his guild training, though he must have scored high to earn a placement here. “Martin, I require some assistance in my research, if you are willing.”

“Of course.” He bowed again. “On which topic?”

“Bonding.”

He led me through the towering shelves of books with the confidence of one who all but lives among them, stopping next to one, the crystal sconces in close proximity brightening to reveal the titles. Extracting two volumes, he held them out. “These are particularly well done.”

Opening one, I took in the pages of drawings of intricate bonding marks, all labeled with the names and titles of those who bore them. Some brilliant silver. Some greying with a mate’s illness.

Some black.

“Every bonding mark is unique,” Martin said, seeming to misinterpret my silence as I stared at the blackened marks of a woman who’d survived her husband’s death some two hundred years past, the image filling me with both terror and hope.

Handing back the volumes, I said, “I’m rather more interested in the nature of the magic. Whether–” I swallowed hard “–whether there is anything about the chances of surviving the death of a spouse.”

His face filled with sympathy, and though Marc’s and my situation was well known – and discussed – in Trollus, it still troubled me that we were seen as a tragedy. “I’m not dead yet,” I snapped, then pressed a hand to my temple as he looked away in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

Martin made a noncommittal noise, then ran a finger down the spines of a long row of books. “There are innumerable accounts of survival, as well as the steps certain individuals took which they believed allowed them to endure the loss, but…”

That was exactly what I was interested in, although his hesitation told me all I needed to know.

“But there is no pattern,” he continued. “No way of predicting who will survive the severing, and no proven method for improving one’s chances. If there were, it would be well known and practiced. I’m happy to set the best of them out for your reading, but I do not think you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

The words on the spines seemed to blur and dance, taunting me with the futility of this errand.