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know—”
    “Enough!” cried Noph in a sudden rage. “I can’t stomach another word from you. I can’t stand to breathe the same air as you.” Laskar tried to interrupt, but Noph swept his hand up before the man “Speak, and I will empty my stomach on you, I swear it. You nauseate me. I nauseate me—the very fact that I am your son makes me sick. Let it be punishment enough that I have inherited your looks—do not add the burden of your deceits.”
    He turned and stalked back toward the narthex, where guests were lined up to be shown to their seats. At the arched entrance to the crying room, he said, “I hope you have enough honour to disown me.” And with that, he left.
    Noph growled inwardly. No, his father was not in league with the malaugrym or the mariners, or anyone else seeking to stop the wedding. No, his father was not a traitor or a murderer. Laskar Nesher was merely a petty criminal in times that called men to greatness.
    Father has chosen his own road. Noph thought. I need to do the same.
    “Sir, your name?” asked the liveried attendant by the door.
    Noph hesitated, unsure what to say. At last, he murmured, “Put me down simply as Freeman Kastonoph, friend and loyal servant of the groom.”
    Interlude: The Silver Margin
    Midnight has come.
    The time for worry about plots is done. Let the traitors do their worst. They will have to reckon with me. They will have to fight Madieron and Captain Rulathon. The Blackstaff guards us, too, and even young Kastonoph.
    Whatever comes, I will marry Eidola; the Boarskyrs will sign the pact; all the world will be forever changed. For better or for worse. I am already dizzy with change.
    I cling to the wooden chancel screen, fashioned of twirled walnut. Walnut has its swirls. Disease twists these into burls. We carve the burls into flourishes and filigree.
    One chaos is carved from another.
    I gaze through the screen. The chapel is carved into pieces by it.
    I see fragments of a bright, crowded sanctuary. I see dark pieces of the gathered guests. I see empty sections of blackness where my bride will appear.
    Fragments and pieces…
    Rock to sand to dust to nothing at all….
    The sanctuary is slowly listing over.
    It will capsize before my bride stands beside me.
    We will be married on the ceiling.
    Cold sweat stands on my white cheeks. I am glad Sandrew gave me this bucket.
    I see a piece of my young spy. Noph strides solemnly through the screen spaces. He fits himself onto an already loaded bench.
    There is something different about him. His swagger is gone. Even he is changed. He suddenly seems a man.
    “Tomorrow, Iam a man.”
    I spoke those words long, long ago. The memory is as strong and stinging as distilled spirits.
    Shaleen is a silhouette against the dim gloaming.
    She stands framed by a rugged wood doorway. Beyond her hangs a hay hook. It is tangled with its block and tackle. The barn slats glow with predawn.
    I rise. Hay drops from me. I shiver, feeling the cold against my bare skin. I shiver again, with something else.
    This is a mistake. Nothing will be me same now. Nothing. She will forever be different. I, too. A yearning shoots through me. I wish to return to the day before, to our young and simple lives.
    I search in the hay for my breeches. The sound of my hand is loud in the morning.
    “Come here,” Shaleen whispers.
    I look up to her. She stands there, bare as the morning.
    “Come see”
    I nod. I try to rise, but my legs tremble. The loft’s planks are rough under my feet.
    I reach her.
    She, too, trembles, but her shoulders and back are warm and solid in the darkness.
    “Look,” she says. Her hand points outward. Beyond the turbulence of the autumn forest, a slim curtain rises in the night It is the silver margin between dark and day. ‘Tomorrow.”
    The sound of that single word makes my heart break. “Tomorrow,” I echo.
    Apologies and fears well up inside me, but no words. There is only gushing emotion—shame, longing, regret,