Chapter 32: The Claim Again

Linus held his right wrist up to the cameras, as he had done the first time.

The pale ring on it was already burning gold.

Every wall of the Claiming Hall showed it.

"Last call for lot nine," the announcer said, and his voice broke on the word.

Linus's own voice, when it came, was steady, and he was surprised by how little effort it took.

"I name Marshal Ambrose Roark."

The speakers carried it up to the roof.

He heard it come back from the far walls a moment later, small and clear.

"I named him in this Hall when I was a lot on a stage and had nothing else to try. He came down and took my hand."

He kept his eyes on the middle tiers.

"I'm not a lot now. Nobody here is. So I'm saying it again, and this time I'm asking."

There was a stir in the middle of the Hall.

Ambrose was on his feet.

The baker had pulled the loaf out of his lap in time, and Perrin was staring up at him, white-faced and delighted.

"I name Marshal Ambrose Roark," Linus said. "Who sat in the front row for seven years and then stood up."

His hand was shaking.

He kept it up.

"Who cuts the bread in the morning. Who took the boy's letter and dug the hole himself. Who falls over in the thyme and laughs."

A sound went round the tiers, half a laugh and half a sob.

"I name my husband."

Ambrose came down.

He did not take the side stairs or the wings.

He walked straight down the middle aisle between the cheap seats, and the drones on either side got up and made a path for him.

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