The cathedral at night was a different place.

Valerius had been in it at all hours — early morning before the city woke, late afternoon when the light came through the broken tracery at its longest angle, evening after the torches of performances had been extinguished and the magic of what had happened in it was settling back into the stone. He had not been in it at this hour: past midnight, the Festival's decoration entirely cleared, the torches gone, only the moon-laurel's ambient light remaining — the permanent, slow glow of something that had been absorbing Cadence magic for centuries and had no intention of stopping.

They sat in the nave. Not the courtyard — the nave, with the cathedral's roof above them open to the sky in the places where the vaulting had come down, the stars visible through the gaps, Frostmonth cold coming in at the edges of what the moon-laurel's warmth couldn't reach.

She had not begun speaking immediately when they arrived. He had not asked her to. He had waited — in the way he had learned to wait for her, the way that gave space without withdrawing presence — and let the space be what it needed to be before it became something else.

"My name is Lysandra Vespera," she said, at last.

He listened.

"My mother was the last High Weave-Dancer of the Moon-Laurel tribe. My father was her partner — a Cadence practitioner from a neighboring community, long gone before I was old enough to remember him. I was born into the tribe. I was trained from childhood in the Weave-Dancing, because the tradition had to pass to someone and I was the someone it passed to." She looked at the nave's vaulted ceiling — the remaining sections of it, the stone carved with the geometric patterns that had their correspondence in Moon-Laurel choreographic notation. "By the time I was fourteen, most of the tribe was gone. By the time I was seventeen, I was the last."

He had known this, from Caelum's account, from the documents, from the accumulating context of six weeks. Hearing it from her, in the nave that had been their practice space, in the dark of a post-performance night, gave it a weight that knowledge had not given it.

"The Glass-Heart Curse," she said. "It's Moon-Laurel specific — it doesn't affect anyone outside the lineage. It's the reason the tribe diminished. Not the Inquisition's suppression, not external pressure, not dispersal. The curse. It had been working through the lineage for three generations before I was born. I was the only one born with a slow enough progression to survive into adulthood." A pause. "That's also why I survived. Not strength. Timing."

"The Rite of Lustration," he said.

"The tribe's final rite. When the last practitioner approaches the end — when the lineage is truly ending, not merely diminished — the tradition requires the release of the accumulated Cadence magic of the entire lineage back into the world. A return of what was borrowed." She looked at him. "It requires a Cadence instrument of Royal caliber. The resonance requirements are specific — the magic stored in a lineage has a particular signature, and the instrument that releases it has to be capable of the full frequency range that signature occupies." Another pause. "The Aetheris is the only instrument currently active in Aethelgard that meets those requirements."

"And I'm the only person who can play the Aetheris."

"Yes."

He sat with this. The complete architecture of it — her arrival in Oakhaven, the research, the lie about Caelum, the escalating urgency of the rehearsal schedule, the specific requirements she had placed on what the performance needed to achieve. All of it, assembled, made sense in the way that things only make sense when you have all the pieces.

"The lie," he said.

"Caelum." She held his gaze. "I needed to approach you. I needed regular access to you and to the Aetheris. If I had come to you and said: I'm dying, I have months, I need your violin to perform the final rite of my tribe before I go—" She stopped. "You would have said yes. I believed that, even then. But you would have said yes from grief. You would have played from grief. And the Rite requires—" She paused, choosing the word carefully. "The Rite requires the musician to be present in the music. Not managing loss. Present."

"You needed me to play from the other place," he said. "The one before grief."

"Yes." Quietly. "I needed you to rediscover that place existed. And then I needed you to play from it." A pause. "I couldn't tell you why while I was trying to get you there. I thought the knowledge would make the getting there impossible."

He was quiet for a while. The cathedral held its dark around them. Through the gaps in the vaulting, three stars visible — the same three he had noticed from this angle weeks ago, when the world had been starting to have color again and he hadn't yet known why.

"You were right," he said. "About the grief. If you had told me in the first week—" He thought about it honestly. "I would have played from grief. I don't know if it would have been sufficient for the Rite."

She did not say: you see, then. She said nothing, which was the correct response.

"How long do you have?"

The question came out steady. He had been carrying it since Elowen's face in the restaurant, since the word irreversible, since the clinical estimate of Spring Equinox at the outside. He asked it because he needed to hear her answer, not Elowen's estimate.

"Less than Elowen said," Lysandra said. "The Rite accelerates the progression — releasing the lineage's stored magic takes a toll on the body that carries it. I knew this would happen. I planned for it." She looked at her hands in the moonlight — the left hand, which she held slightly differently than the right in cold air. "My own estimate: six weeks. Perhaps eight, if the cold doesn't worsen."

Six weeks. He received this with the stillness of someone who has been given information that requires stillness.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

The question surprised her — he saw it in her face, the small shift of encountering something she had not prepared for. "Sometimes," she said. "Not the way you'd think. It's more — a diminishment. Of sensation at the edges. The cold reaches me before it should. The warmth takes longer." A pause. "The dancing hurts less than I expected. Movement helps."

"The rehearsals," he said. "Every session. You were managing it."

"Yes."

"And the warming up — the extra layers, the water—"

"A protocol. I've been on it since the progression became significant, about two years ago. It doesn't reverse anything. It keeps the function available longer."

He thought about her in the cold morning courtyards, arriving earlier than him every day. The tincture. The flask. The check of her left hand at the beginning of each session. The seventeen items. He had been witnessing her maintenance of her own remaining life, itemized, and had not had the category for what he was seeing.

"Why are you telling me this now?" he asked. Not the accusation version of the question. The genuine version: of all the moments available, this one.

"Because Caelum was going to tell you tomorrow," she said. "Because Elowen told you tonight. Because I ran out of time to do this on the schedule I had." She looked at him. "And because I couldn't keep watching you not know."

The last clause arrived differently from the others. Less structural, more personal. He held it.

"The last thing," he said. "Your name. Lysandra."

"Yes."

"Not Aurelia."

"No. Never Aurelia, for what it mattered. Aurelia was the name I needed to be here. Lysandra is the name I am." She looked at him. "You can call me either. I'll answer to both now."

He looked at her — at Lysandra Vespera, the last of the Moon-Laurel tribe, the girl who had arrived in his life in the middle of a night in the Solitude Cathedral courtyard wearing crimson and carrying a mission and a deadline that neither of them had spoken about until now. He looked at her and found that the person he was looking at was the same person he had been looking at for six weeks, and that the information he now had about her did not change the person, only the frame around her.

He did not leave.

This was the first thing he chose, in the series of choices the next weeks would require of him: he did not leave. He sat in the dark nave of the Solitude Cathedral with the moon-laurel light coming through the windows and the cold coming through the gaps in the vaulting, and he remained.

They stayed in the cathedral until the cold became something neither of them could continue ignoring. When they left, they walked separately toward their separate streets, which was the right thing — the night had been enough for what it had needed to be, and the morning would be different, and there was time, still, for the different morning to contain something worth having.

Not very much time. But some.