Chapter 7: The Terms

I read the paper standing in the doorway of the study, in Marcello's coat and nothing else.

It was two pages, typed.

At the bottom, in black ink, was his signature, and under it Gwen's father's.

The date was today. The time was 6:02 a.m.

"I can't marry him," Gwen said quietly. "I don't want to. I want you to know that."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because my father sent me to tell you. And because I wanted to tell you first."

I looked at her.

She was twenty-nine and perfectly poised, and her hands were shaking so hard the paper rustled.

I handed it back.

"Where is he?"

"The great hall."

I went upstairs, pulled on jeans and my gray sweatshirt, and tied my hair back with a rubber band from the bathroom drawer.

I did not cry in the mirror.

The great hall was full.

Guests from both sides sat at breakfast, in the stiff silence of people who had slept badly in a strange house.

Marcello stood by the fireplace with his hands in his pockets, a few feet from Gwen's father.

His mother sat in a high-backed chair at the head of the table with a cup of coffee she was not drinking.

I walked straight across the room.

Every head turned.

"You signed," I said.

"June."

"At six o'clock. After I fell asleep."

"I'll explain."

"Then explain it to me out loud, in front of them."

He looked at me.

Then he looked at the room, and I watched him decide.

"I signed a truce agreement," he said, loud enough for the back tables.

"His men hand over every rifle at the front door until the pass opens. All eleven go in my gun room, locked, until the plows come."

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