The linen bundle stayed on the table while Elowen continued.

Grace had looked at it and understood, from the shape of it and the quality of the wrapping, that she would open it in her own time and not under the gaze of this particular room. Some things required privacy not because they were shameful but because the experience of receiving them deserved the full attention of the person receiving them, and the full attention was not available here, in this small back room with four people and four different weights of history in it.

She left the bundle where it was and asked Elowen to continue.

Elowen continued.

She had told the story of her departure. Now Grace asked her to go back further — to the period before the departure, to the structure of what had been required of her, to the specific mechanics of the role she had been trained for and the people who had maintained it.

"The man who visited," Grace said. "The one from Velmira. He came twice a year."

"Twice a year for the two years I was at House Marst. Less frequently at Ravencroft — I saw him twice in the two years I was here. He came for signings."

"He was present at the signings."

"For the significant ones. The annual renewal contracts, the ones that required witnesses from both the Velmira and the Ravencroft side. He would arrive a day before, stay overnight, attend the signing in the morning, and leave before noon." Elowen paused. "He was always very pleasant about it. He would have tea with me the evening before. Ask how I was settling in. Tell me my penmanship was improving." A slight pause in her voice on the last sentence, not quite irony, something more tired than irony. "I believed he genuinely liked me."

Grace looked at the table. "He did," she said. "That's what makes it more complicated, not less."

Elowen looked at her. A long moment of evaluation, the kind that two people made when they were deciding whether the person across from them understood something in the specific way they understood it, rather than in the general way.

"Yes," she said. "That's exactly what I've been trying to say to myself for four years and couldn't find the words for."

---

The mechanics of the arrangement, as Elowen described them, were more systematic than Grace had fully appreciated even from the files she had read.

The Velmira side managed the preparation and placement of the Grace — the selection of the ward, the training curriculum, the monitoring of the aromatic sensitivity profile. The Ravencroft side managed the housing and the signings. The connection between the two was maintained through a small number of people who understood the full structure: on the Velmira side, the man Elowen had described; on the Ravencroft side, the physician, and the lord of the house who had chosen to continue rather than end the arrangement.

"Your father," Grace said to Cassian.

"My father knew the structure and maintained it," Cassian said. He said it without inflection, which was, she had learned, how he said things that had cost him something to arrive at. "He believed it was necessary. For Ravencroft's financial position. For the continuity of the Winter Rose contracts. He told himself that the women were well cared for, that the signing was not harmful, that the arrangement was better than what they had come from." A pause. "He was not right."

"Did he know what was done to them?" Grace asked. "The pharmaceutical preparation?"

"I believe he knew it was used. I don't believe he knew the full extent of its effects on memory. He thought of it as — a settling measure. To help the women adjust to the role." Cassian looked at the table. "He was very good at believing what he needed to believe."

Elowen made a sound. Not a laugh. Something adjacent.

"Did he know what happened to them after the signings were done?" Grace asked.

"I don't know," Cassian said. "That's one of the things the files haven't told me clearly. The transitions between Graces — I know they happened, I have the dates, I don't have the mechanism. Whether the previous Grace was moved on, or whether —" He stopped. "I don't know."

Grace thought about the scraped name plates in The Thorn Hall. Five women. She thought about the gaps in the Winter Rose contracts. She thought about Cecily Marne, who had died of a fever.

She did not say what she was thinking. It was a conclusion that required more evidence than she currently had, and drawing it prematurely would make it a theory she was attached to rather than a fact she had found.

---

Elowen answered two more of Grace's questions, then held up a hand.

"I want to ask you something," she said to Grace.

Grace nodded.

"When you arrived at Ravencroft. Before you knew any of this." Elowen looked at her steadily. "Did you know? Any part of it? Did anyone tell you what you were walking into?"

Grace thought about the morning she had received the summons. The formal study, Lord Maeron behind his desk, Adrian beside the fireplace with his practiced expression of grief. The hôn ước she had never known existed. The signature on the contract that matched her hand.

"No," she said. "I knew nothing."

Elowen held her gaze for a moment longer. Then she nodded — the specific nod of someone receiving an answer they had predicted but needed to confirm.

"I wondered," she said. "Sometimes I wondered whether the next one would be told. Whether they would try a different approach." She paused. "They didn't."

"The not-telling is part of the mechanism," Grace said. "An informed woman would be more difficult to manage."

"Yes," Elowen said. And then: "I'm sorry. That you came here the same way I did."

Grace looked at her. The apology was genuine — not the performed sympathy of someone covering distance with words, but the specific regret of a person who had been through something and was sorry to learn that someone else was now going through it too.

"You left the note," Grace said. "You left everything you left. That wasn't nothing."

Elowen was quiet for a moment. "I didn't know if anyone would find it."

"I found it," Grace said. "And it helped. It told me where to be afraid, and I used that correctly."

Elowen looked at her for a long moment. The expression on her face was one Grace had not expected: not warmth, Elowen was not a person whose face moved toward warmth easily. Something else. Something that looked like the specific relief of a person who had been carrying a thing for a long time and had just been told that the carrying had mattered.

---

Before they left, Grace asked the last question.

"The woman in the lower level that night. You said she called a name. You said she had a scar on her right hand." She paused. "Do you remember anything else?"

Elowen thought. The quality of her thinking was visible — she was going back to something she had been over many times, looking for the piece she had not yet found.

"She was moving fast," she said. "Not panicked — focused. Like someone who knew exactly where they were going and was running out of time to get there." A pause. "She had something with her. A bag or a bundle — I couldn't see it clearly. She was holding it against her chest while she ran. Whatever it was, she was protecting it."

The files, Grace thought. Or a child. Elowen had said she didn't know which. Looking at the linen bundle on the table — the thing Elowen had picked up from the corridor that night, the thing that had been lying there after — Grace thought: both. She had been carrying both.

"Thank you," Grace said.

She picked up the linen bundle. Held it against her chest in the way Elowen had described — not deliberately, the gesture arrived without decision, and she let it stay.

Cassian looked at her. He was standing near the wall, had been standing there since his account of the night, and she was aware that he had been watching her manage the accumulation of the morning's information with the specific attention of someone who was trying to understand whether she was all right and had decided that asking would not produce useful information.

She met his eyes.

He was not going to say anything. She knew that. He was going to wait for her to tell him what she needed, which was the only form of consideration that actually felt like consideration rather than management.

She nodded once — the small nod that meant *I'm all right, we can go* — and he opened the back door of the flower stall and they walked out into the Marrowbay afternoon, where the market was still ongoing and the sea was somewhere beyond the rooftops and the world was continuing regardless of what had just been assembled in a small back room behind a dried flower stall.

Grace walked through the market with the linen bundle held against her chest.

She did not look at anything in particular. She looked at the sea where it was visible between buildings, the specific grey of a winter sea that was not stormy but was not calm, that was simply itself and had been itself long before any of this and would be itself long after, and she found this, for some reason she did not examine, a comfort.