“We could help. We could change things. What Belavere needs is progressive thinking,” he said, touching my cheek gently, hesitantly, with the very tips of his fingers. A current traveled from his skin to mine. “Ministers who work with the Craftsmen. Ministers who aren’t one hundred years old.” I laughed through my nose, allowed my face to surrender to his cradle. “We could do it, Nina,” he said. “We could change things.”
