“The girl,” Attis said, “is Maryse of Locke, daughter of the last High Lady of the Isle.” A sharp indrawn breath—Grey didn’t know if it was her or Kier, or both of them, because they knew the truth and neither of them could say it. Under her hand, Kier was very, very still. His own hand snaked back again, gripping her thigh with a new ferocity. “But Maryse of Locke is dead,”
