She nodded, looked again at the sharp little spear of glass, put it deliberately on the edge of the porcelain. Her eyes narrowed in thought—Davout felt his heart vault at that look, at the familiar lines forming at the corner of Red Katrin’s right eye, each one known and adored.
Please do it, he thought desperately.
Please do it,“If it’s that important to you,” she said, “I will.”
“Thank you,” he said.
He bent his head over her and the basin, raised her hand, and pressed his lips to the flesh beaded with water and streaked with blood.
It was almost like conducting an affair, all clandestine meetings and whispered arrangements. Red Katrin did not want Old Davout to know she was uploading his sib’s memories—“I would just as soon not deal with his disapproval”—and so she and Davout had t
