Winter is still and quiet and cold. The serpent curls beneath the rocks and dreams of the sun. Winter is dark and lightless. And Constance is draped in winter. For a moment, she is tempted— the snow crunches under her fingers— and then she lets it fall back to the earth through numb fingers. Its fall is whisper-soft.

She sits in that palimpsest dress by the fountain and lets her fingers drift through the water. It is cold as ice. Later, she will regret this, hand clutched against her breast as she hisses in the agony of feeling returning. But she is not here for herself. She is here for Sir Coilleghille.

The candles are wan. The dress promises skin beneath it, if only a layer or two more was pulled aside. One golden curl rests against her pale cheek. The choice of whether to approach remains in Robena’s hands.