Aubin had been worried since the morning Jocelynn brought Eleanor's body to his temple, wrapped in a blanket and refusing to let anyone else touch her cousin's remains. He'd been worried through the memorial, through the funeral, through the long days of mourning that followed. And he was worried now, standing before the full court of Lothian March, presiding over a ceremony that he couldn't refuse to perform but couldn't bring himself to celebrate.
Jocelynn stood beside Owain with her veil lowered, the cerulean silk casting a blue shadow across her features that made her expression difficult to read. Her hands were folded at her waist, her posture was flawless, and to anyone watching from the tables, she looked like a composed, if somber, bride preparing to speak her vows.
