He held like that for several seconds, squeezing so hard his hands shook, then gently placed his palm on her head and just as gently pushed, saying, “Down,” until she was on her knees before him.
“Lift your veil.”
She lifted the veil.
“Good. Now, Shekalane of Jaskir, do—”
A great foghorn sounded in the blackness out over the river, a blackness so complete it might have marked the border of the world, and both he and Shekalane jerked. The distraction with Milkweed had put them behind schedule; regardless, no one was ever prepared to hear that sound, not if they’d attended a thousand such ceremonies.
At last the rector continued: “... do you, ah, if accepted as a bride to our Lucitor, whose bile is the bath of all things tarnished, promise to, to ...”
Shekalane was looking up at him fr
