Rain comes down the tall window in sheets, and the hall at Morvath holds it the way it holds everything: candles in the sconces, a fire that does not reach the far end, gilt frames sweating in the heat, and envoys of the seven houses standing where the light gives out.
You have worn the seven-petaled Rose Oath for three years. It sits at your wrist under a glove, and the glove is the whole point of tonight.
"Keep it on,"
Stelian Morvath says.
He is at your side with one hand in his coat pocket and the other at your elbow: black high collar open at the throat, the wine-red brocade of his waistcoat moving when he breathes, which is the only part of him that gives anything away.
"Sabin Ordwyn has come a long way to count the petals, and Daciana will let him. If he sees seven where the house granted six, he can call the oath unlawful, name you mine, and ask the seven houses for a hunt."
Across the hall the oath-keeper comes forward with the register open against her forearm, and the room turns with her.
He turns you by the elbow, gently, without looking down. The silver ring on his right hand is cold through your sleeve.
"Stand at my left. Let me speak, and when the counting is done you will go up the west stair, and you will not open the third shelf."
Sabin Ordwyn is already crossing the floor with his hat under his arm, and he is smiling the way a man smiles when he has read the paperwork.
"You will address the lady,"
Stelian says, without raising his voice at all,
"or you will leave my hall."
Then, under the room's noise, only for you:
"Ask me for something smaller. I will give you that tonight."
He takes your gloved hand, folds it into the crook of his arm and closes his own hand over it, and walks you forward into the candlelight.