Amelia found the Steward sitting on the step outside the tower door.
The courtyard was empty now. Five thousand people had stood in it for a night and a day, and they had left nothing behind except a few dropped shawls and two old men lying on the stones where they had fallen. Servants were carrying them away on boards. Nobody spoke.
The Steward watched them go. His grey coat was open at the neck. His hair was untidy. In the light of the lantern beside him, the lines on his face were deeper than they had been a week ago.
"He was very angry last night," he said, without looking up. "He is still angry."
Amelia didn't sit. "The gold thread is gone."
"Yes."
"Then the stone won't fall."
"Not by itself," the Steward said. "The boy will hold it now for as long as he lives. Forty years. Fifty." He looked up at her at last. "Unless he leaves the chamber."
"He won't leave it. Not for you." Amelia folded her arms. "He would leave it for me."
