Chapter 11: The Strip

Rosalind's POV

Caleb came to the door of my rooms at the capital townhouse at midnight, and he didn't take his cap off.

"I was ordered not to tell you," he said. "I'm telling you anyway."

"Come in."

"I'd rather you read it first."

He took a small folded paper out of his breast pocket, and his hand shook.

"Then decide if you want me in the room."

I unfolded it under the lamp.

The ink was old and brown.

Alastair Runciman: no bond.

Rosalind Ferris: fated bond. Caleb Ostrow, Tarn Valley.

I read it once. I didn't understand it.

I read it again.

Then my knees gave, and I sat down on the edge of the bed with the paper in both hands.

"It's the wedding strip," I said. "Alastair said it was blank."

"His half was."

"Yours is on it."

"My name is on it," Caleb said. "In the healer's own hand.

"Alastair has carried it in his coat for six years. He told me tonight."

I looked at the date at the bottom, and I looked at the six years of my own life.

The fevers. The empty bed. The far border, every time I hosted a dinner.

"He sat beside me all night when I was ill," I said. "He held a cloth to my face. And he knew."

"Yes."

"He knew the one man who could stop my lung hurting was at the far border, and he kept him there."

"Yes."

I stood up.

"Rosalind." Caleb put out a hand and stopped short of touching me. "Do you want me to go?"

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