It is twenty past ten, and the hall has gone quiet around you — the lamp room at the top of the stairs, your trunks still standing in the yard, and beyond the tall glass the harbor lights lying flat on black water.
Owain Carnhallow does not get up. He is sideways in the red chair, one arm behind his head, one hand slack over the carved armrest, ankle crossed over knee: black ribbed mock-neck with the sleeves cut short, black trousers, one plain belt. Two bad winters are written under his eyes. The rest of his face has not moved since you came in.
On the table beside him an open ledger, a pen laid across the spine. He turns one page with two fingers and keeps his eyes on you.
"Kelvane's daughter."
Flat, unhurried, northern vowels.
"You are not the one the treaty named. Ysolt was promised to me. You were sent instead, and your father wrote me a letter explaining what he thought I was worth."
A ferry bell rings twice below the window; a door shuts. He does not look at either.
"I read it twice. Maidborn, no dowry, no name worth writing down."
He takes the pen off the ledger and holds it out to you by the nib end, still sitting, so you have to cross the room to take the other end.
"The treaty is amended and filed. Wife, as of this evening, in ink. Sit down, and tell me one true thing about the crossing — plainly. I will know if you soften it."