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She wasn’t sure how long she stayed like that. But eventually she shook herself out of her numb trance and forced her palms back onto the bowl.

When the Primale came to the surface again, she wasn’t surprised—

She was horrified.

He lay sprawled out on a marble floor, unconscious by a toilet. Just as she was about to leap up to do only the Virgin knew what, the image changed. He was in a bed, a pale lavender bed.

Turning his head, he looked straight out of the water at her and said, “Cormia?”

Oh, dearest Virgin Scribe, the sound made her want to weep.

“Cormia?”

She shot to her feet. The Primale was standing in the temple’s doorway, dressed in whites, the medallion of his station around his neck.

“Verily . . .” She could go no further. She wanted to rush forward and put her arms around him and hold on. She’d seen him dead. She’d seen him . . .

“Why are you here?” he asked, looking around the barren room. “All by yourself.”

“I’m sequestered.” She cleared her throat. “As I said I would be.”

“So I’m not supposed to be here?”

“You’re the Primale. You can be anywhere.”

As he walked around the room, she had so many questions, none of which she had any right to ask.

He looked over at her. “No one else is allowed in here?”

“Not unless one of my sisters joins me as a sequestered scribe. Although the Directrix may come in if she is granted leave by me.”

“Why is the sequestering necessary?”

“In addition to recording the races’s general history, we . . . I see the things the Scribe Virgin wishes to keep . . . private.” As the Primale’s yellow eyes narrowed, she knew what he was thinking. “Yes, I’ve seen what you did. In that bathroom.”

The curse he let out echoed up to the white ceiling.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you going to be okay here? All by yourself?”

“I’ll be fine.”

He stared at her. Long and hard. The sorrow was in his face, in its deep grooves of pain and regret.

“You didn’t hurt me,” she said. “When we were together, you didn’t hurt me. I know you think you did, but you didn’t.”

“I wish . . . things were different.”

Cormia laughed sadly, and on a whim murmured, “You’re the Primale. Change them.”

“Your grace?” the Directrix appeared in the open doorway, looking confused. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“Seeing Cormia.”

“Oh, but . . .” Amalya seemed to shake herself, as if remembering that the Primale could go wherever he chose and see whomever he wished, as sequestered was a term that restricted all but him. “But of course, your grace. Ah . . . the Chosen Layla is prepared for you and in your temple?”

Cormia looked down at the bowl in front of her. As Chosen had very short fertility cycles here on this side, it was very likely Layla was either fertile or about to become fertile. No doubt there would be words of the pregnancy to record very soon.

“Time for you to go,” she said, glancing up at the Primale.

His eyes positively bored into hers. “Cormia—”

“Your grace?” the Directrix cut in.

In a hard voice, he said over his shoulder, “I’ll be there when I’m good and damned ready.”

“Oh, please forgive me, your grace, I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s all right,” he said wearily. “Just tell her . . . I’ll be there.”

The Directrix quickly ducked out, and the door shut.

The Primale’s eyes refocused on Cormia, locking in. And then he came across the room with a grave expression on his face.

As he sank down on his knees in front of her, she was shocked. “Your grace, you shouldn’t—”

“Phury. You call me Phury. Never ‘your grace’ or ‘Primale. ’ Starting now, I don’t want to hear anything but my real name from you.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

Cormia shook her head. “All right, except you shouldn’t be on your knees. Ever.”

“In front of you, I should only be on my knees.” He put his hands lightly on her arms. “In front of you . . . I always should be bowed.” He looked over her face and her hair. “Listen, Cormia, I need you to know something.