“That’s right,” Constance says. Agreement! The test has been passed. There can be rejoicing! Let everyone come back in and let the true revels begin! “A creature of violence deserves nothing more. It was a thief and a murderer, sworn to no banner.” She strokes one long and pale finger down the length of the skull.

The clink of her spoon on the bottom of the soup-dish is too loud. She takes a dainty sip, and then sets the spoon back down into the soup.

“You should stay,” she says, still not looking at Robena. “What follows you will come in its own time, whether or not you are indoors and out. Catching the fox is worth a night here, at the very least; and maybe you can win a place at the table again tomorrow with your talents.”

She speaks with an understated authority; did she judge the hunt of the fox? Is this a judgment? Did she, perhaps, advise the lady of this castle on how to receive the mendicant knight? Perhaps it is because Constance is a river-daughter and a descendant of giants. Perhaps it is deeper sorcery.

But if that is the case, can you trust her, Robena? Surely you remember the look of horror emblazoned on her fair face when you sunk your axe deep into the king’s flesh, splitting muscle and splintering bone with one terrible blow. Why would she forgive you? Can she be expected to know what you have done this past year, if you do not tell her?

If she means you ill, if she thinks you a fox yourself, if she has not forgotten the way in which Pellinore crumpled beneath that dolorous blow, then it would be prudent to explain to her, to convince her that you have changed, you have atoned, you are going to make right—

Unless she has already forgiven you, and would look on you with pity and contempt for begging her pardon freely given.

She reveals nothing. So like her. Maddening, even. That she is so willfully reticent on how she truly feels, how she clings to her family’s past grandeur like a protective cloak, walking through the world so self-assured that she is in the right, that she has the right to pass judgment— if she truly is, and is not simply another guest of the castle, that is.

Constance gives away less than looking into the ice and the black waters below. Answer her, then, or challenge her, or plead with her, or shut yourself away and refuse her potential, hidden judgment. The choice, as ever, is yours. It has always been yours, Robena.