Constance might as well be a statue, hewn out of the white rock by one of Brutus's camp. Then a tremor runs through her, and she lets out an exhalation that is all too human: a sound, as if made by a squire putting down a heavy burden that had, several miles back, ceased to be regarded as burden or something that could be felt. The sudden rush of blood through limbs; the ache suddenly returning with a retinue and breaking down doors.

"I accept, Lady Sauvage," Constance says, and her voice is quiet and still, like the groaning of ice on the water. "But I fear her doom will claim her, and I will hold it against you if you compel me to witness what will befall her. But it is not for her sake, is it? I allowed the blow to fall; I let her loose and then failed to save a King of Britain from her heavy hand. What a kingdom this is! That even those who hope to save it see their hopes crumble dry beneath their fingers! As the farmer, so the knight; as the king, so the river-daughter."

When she reaches out and takes Tristan's hand in hers, her fingers are steady and strong, and her grip is desperate all the same. Desperate to be convinced that she is not being punished, here and now, for her own failures.