sway his favor. If I’m not there, will he be disqualified? Will someone else be chosen?
For Maribor’s sake, how pathetic am I being? What does it matter who wears the crown? I nearly died, but I’m still alive! I’m free! I’m married to a goddamn duke and live in a lavish estate! What’s there to complain about? So what if he doesn’t love me. Who cares? I love him, and I’ll keep on loving him.
Bishop Oswal Tynewell stood behind the many panes of glass that formed the great rose window directly above the front doors of Grom Galimus. Eight stories up, he had a perfect, unobstructed view of the plaza below. The dancing had stopped, and the rope dividers had been removed. Everyone advanced to take their seats at one of twenty tables set up in four rows circling the statue of Novron. Oswal marveled at the accuracy with which they were placed. No one down there could see the spacing the way he could. The