Could poetry, could any writing, matter in the face of this? Marina thought. Was there even room for it?

Two windows were open to the afternoon. You could imagine, if you were so inclined, a wind of the wider world sweeping into the room. She had an image of the Dance of Death, a thing she wanted to write about, if her life ever allowed her to choose her own subjects.

Merchant and lord and lady, farmer and artisan and craftswoman, soldier and courtesan, and a child.

Dancing with the skeleton, hand in hand in hand.

—

Thierry was in the antechamber of Robbin de Vaux’s home in the city. A room he knew well. Just beyond was the chamber where de Vaux worked from home. There were a handful of soldiers and four serjeants here, half outside the room, half in the courtyard. The serjeants had surprised him. Then he’d realized that Medor, now provost, would feel a responsibility for the constable when he was in Orane.

De Vaux was not here, was evidently at the court with the king. No one knew how long he’d be, or what was happening. Rumours were like flies in the summer air. Thierry settled in to wait, and think. He didn’t know why Gauvard Colle had told him to find the constable, what possible role he had to play. But he—trusted wasn’t quite the right word, but it was close—he understood that Colle knew things most people did not. Because of what he was. What she was.

“You can still ignore it,” Silvy had said in their bed last night. “He doesn’t control you.”

He could do that. Could ignore all this. He’d said, fumbling for clarity, “It is because something communicates with Colle. I have seen it. Experienced it.”

“So?” asked the woman he had finally realized he loved. And who appeared to love him. “That’s Colle’s life, not yours, Thierry.”

“I’ll at least talk to de Vaux,” he said. “I owe him that much.”

She wasn’t satisfied, but she’d let the matter drop.

And so he was here now, waiting.

De Vaux came back towards sunset. He looked tired, but he nodded courteously at Thierry and ushered him in to the private room. He’d have much to do now, Thierry was certain. This was graciousness.

“Thank you,” he said.

“What do you need of me, Villar?” De Vaux took his seat behind his desk, as always. He gestured and Thierry sat opposite. They were alone.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe—I don’t know why—you need me?”

De Vaux raised his eyebrows. A moment passed. The bells began outside, all over Orane.

“You’ve been to see Gauvard Colle?” asked the constable of Ferrieres.

He had always been so quick, Thierry thought. He nodded. “Yes.”

“He told you to come here?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”