“Oh, I am. But Rodvard—”
“What has he done? I’ll—”
“Oh, it’s no fault of his. You will tell no one?” She laid a cold hand on his warm one. “He has found who the heiress of Tuolén is, but does not know whether to tell Mathurin or not.”
“Who is she?”
“A child, thirteen years old. She lives at Dyolana, up in Oltrug seignory. But I do not know how long Rodvard will keep the secret. He feels a sense of duty.”
“Why should he not? What withholds him from telling?”
“I would have to teach her the patterns and everything. I do not wish it.” She shivered slightly. “And to be a witch—”
The rising shades had drowned the sun. A silence came on the garden, so utter that Lalette felt she could hear her own heart beat, and Demadé Slair’s beside her. The trees stood straight; the ruins of the flowers did not stir. In that enchanted stillness she seemed to float without power of motion. He leaned toward her, his arm close against her back, his other hand crept over her two.
“Demoiselle—Lalette,” he said in a voice so low it did not break the quiet. “I love you. Come away with me.”
Her down-bent head shook slowly; tears gathered behind the almost-closed eyes.