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I can’t help myself. “That’s unusual.”
“I suppose I was married, but my wife is gone.” He stumbles over the confession, blinking as if to clear his head.
Suddenly I know where I’ve heard his name. The old memory resurfaces and my stomach rolls over.
She had an accident.
Amie’s words. Before I can compose myself, he stops and drops his hands from me.
“The song has ended. I suppose I must return you to your fiancé.” He offers me his arm. His gaze stays unfocused, as though he’s searching for something in the distance as he leads me back to Cormac and thanks him for the dance.
“Of course,” Cormac says. “It looked like you were having a nice chat.” I can tell Cormac wants to know what the minister said to me. Of course he does.
“He was telling me how his father died,” I admit.
“He was?” Cormac asks. I can’t gauge his reaction.
“Actually, he was about to tell me,” I say, turning to Minister Swander expectantly.
“Excuse me, I see Brient,” he says, avoiding the question once more. “Thank you for the lovely dance.”
He hurries away, and I can’t help but notice that he dashes straight for the washroom.
“How did his father die?” I ask Cormac. “I thought the Guild had gotten around that inconvenience.”
“We can still die, Adelice,” Cormac mutters.
“You could have fooled me.”
“Death is a tricky thing. He wears many faces
.”
I wonder what face death will wear when he visits Cormac. I wonder if death will look like me.
“And his wife?”
Cormac shrugs.
“There was an accident,” I say. “You made an example of her.”
I recall the reverent account Amie gave about her teacher, at our dining table. I remember the hushed fear in my parents’ voices. I remember everything about that night.
“You do love your stories,” Cormac says, taking my elbow and steering me out of earshot.
“The truth is much more interesting,” I say in a low voice.
“Truth takes time,” he warns me. “Someday, when you’ve lived a lifetime, you’ll understand that.”
“And how long will it take you to believe it?”
He flashes me a murderous look, and I duck back toward the crowd, my heart beating fast as my past and present collide.
* * *
The dinner is served in courses. The first is the onion soup I despise. I slurp it loudly, pretending to relish every drop. Cormac ignores me, chatting with the other guests at the table. I pick at my roasted pheasant and finally abandon it.
“When is the wedding?” the wife of one of the ministers asks me from across the table.
