"If," said the Prelate at last, with the air of a man reading the one line he had been dreading all day, "there is any person in this hall who knows of cause why these two may not be bound, let them speak now, or forever hold their peace."
It was a ritual question. It was always asked, and never answered, and the silence that followed was supposed to be a formality.
The silence went on a little too long.
Salviana felt it before she heard it, a shifting in the third row, the rustle of black silk. She did not turn her head. She heard a chair scrape. She heard a heavy breath.
"I do."
The thin woman in the black collar had risen to her feet. She was perhaps fifty, with a face like a hatchet and a diamond brooch pinned over her heart. She clutched a lace handkerchief in one fist as though it were a weapon.
"Lady Marta," said the Prelate faintly. "I beg you—"
