Six days passed since Ruelle had returned home, seven days since grief had struck the people in there.
The wedding was postponed, and people of the high society wondered if the treaty was cursed, considering it was the second time for it to be disrupted. And half of them wondered if the funeral was held privately, considering no one had received an invitation to attend it.
Right now in the prayer hall, Ruelle sat beside Lachlan on a low wooden bench. Her face had faded from bruise-dark to a faded, cream-dry yellow around the edges, but the swelling was gone and her vision restored. She had come to this room each day. She sat in the same place, on the same bench, and she spoke to him. Even though he had been moved away from the block of ice, his body carried the scent of rot in it.
Her hands were folded in her lap as she watched him now.
